


Burn Like That

by ijen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Gap Filler, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-02-26 04:21:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 40,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13227963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ijen/pseuds/ijen
Summary: The folly of desire, the folly of withdrawal. Nymphadora Tonks and Remus Lupin, 1995-1998.





	1. The Desire to Burn

**Author's Note:**

> Harry Potter and its associated characters, stories, and trademarks do not belong to me. This is a purely non-profit endeavour, for which I expect absolutely nothing in return but perhaps the kindness of strangers who generously share and invest their time in my imagination. 
> 
> The title of this work and the summary are borrowed from Alicia Ostriker's amazing and ageless "A Young Woman, a Tree".

The room was small; she couldn't fully stretch out her legs, and she was, at least naturally, shorter than average. There was just enough space for her to scoot between butt cheeks. Her hands were bound behind her—her fingers could graze the cold hard floor. There was a layer of coarse dust on it. A broom cupboard? she ventured. Then there must be something, a broom, a mop, anything that she could use. All her efforts availed her were more bruises under the self-tightening magical rope.  


A distant scream had pierced the silence some time ago. It’s okay, she had told herself, you’ll be alright, old girl. She desperately searched her mind for anything to distract her from the rising feeling of dread in her stomach. Twenty one years she had been alive—surely, perhaps, there could be some good memories in there?

She thought of her father’s crackling wireless on the dining table. She thought of her father combing his hair back, croaking _thankyew very much thankyew very much_ in a terrible gurgling American accent—no, he was no Andy Kaufman. She thought of a gentle, lazy guitar riff in a loop: C major, Em11, C major. C major, Em11, C major.

The door slammed open, narrowly missing her feet. It was little things like this that kept her spirit up.

"Nymphadora Tonks," whispered a malicious voice, "Auror."

The blindfold disappeared. She blinked in the faint, flickering light of the gas lamp above her.

A masked man had entered the room. She could see another pair of boots behind him: the room was too small for both of them to fit in here at the same time. Good.

"Just Tonks, please."

"You know the drill.” The masked man spoke in a theatrically menacing voice with drawn-out enunciation. “Be a good girl and give us the information we want. Then maybe, we’ll show you mercy.“

"Did you know," said Tonks casually, "that the Muggles have put a man on the moon?"

"You think this is funny?" growled a voice behind the masked man.

"No, I think it's amazing, they're brilliant, aren't they, the Muggles."

"Enough," said the masked man. He jabbed a finger at her. "You will tell us where the Aurors have hidden the thing we seek!"

"No can't do," she said, grinning in spite of herself, "I just started work, see, and I'd be so fired if I just roll over and give it up, wouldn't I?"

The masked man almost stepped on her when he dashed forward and yanked her up by the hair. She knew what was coming when his eyes bored into hers. She was ready for the rush of memories racing past her—it became so crowded and noisy in the room, she could hardly keep her mind on the same lazy guitar riff that had been stuck in her head since waking up here—oh, here we go. C major. Em11. C major. _I’ll see you in heaven if you make the list_.

The masked man stepped back. "What is that repulsive noise?" he grunted.

"Peaking at number 18 on the UK Singles' chart," muttered Tonks between panting, grinning from how satisfied she was at herself, "Muggle genius—honestly, their music is magical..."

Something hot slapped against her face. She spat out saliva tinged with blood.

"She's still not taking this seriously," said the hidden man.

"I know. Enough of the mouth, girl," hissed the masked man, his wand still pointed at her.

"My mouth and I are a package deal, sorry. Luckily, you're a wizard, and unlike me, you have a wand. The incantation you're looking for is _Silencio_ ," said Tonks.

The masked man groaned exasperatedly. "Why must you make this so hard," he muttered. Then his voice dropped an octave lower: "We can still use you against the Ministry whether you like it or not."

He raised his wand. " _Imperio_!"

The expected sensation of lightness rushed over her. She turned her senses outward first. She tried to feel the bite of the tight rope against her skin, the sting of the wound on her face, the cramp setting in her leg... Everything became numb... she was floating in vacuum, in blissful nothingness...

The masked man’s voice echoed in her head. _Stand up and say I will obey. Stand up and say I will obey._

And still the guitar riff looped in her head. C major. Em11. C major. _If you believed, they put a man on the moon_. The chords became louder and louder: it started to drown out the masked man’s voice. She could slowly feel the bruise on her wrists where the rope bit into them. She could feel her tongue, and then the vibration of her vocal chords, and then she heard her voice:

"I

Will

Not!"

Each word felt like a massive rock she had to cough off her chest. When the curse was lifted, she found herself with one knee on the floor, already half-getting up. She blinked. Her body was reacquainted with the sensation of gravity and she collapsed onto the cold hard floor.

"Not bad," sneered the masked man.

“Thank you,” muttered Tonks, grimacing. Once she had caught her breath she looked up at the masked man. “Are we done here, then? No? Well. We can do this all night long, babe."

The masked man sighed. He lowered his wand. And then a hand yanked him out of the room, and a shorter masked man limped out of the darkness. There was only one eye hole in his mask, from which he glared at her with barely concealed anger.

"I'll deal with her myself," said the new man.

She gave him her best cockiest smile. “Now, where are your manners? Are we going to introduce ourselves?"

He stabbed his wand into the spot mere inches from her nose.

“ _Crucio_."

White hot pain cracked through her body like a whip. Breathe, she reminded herself, but when she tried to inhale it was like breathing in thumbtacks. And then it stopped. She coughed—she had choked a little on her saliva. There was suddenly an explosion of yells that made her ears ring.

"YOU KNOW DAMN WELL WE DON'T USE THE CRUCIATUS CURSE ON CANDIDATES ANYMORE—"

Her binding was gone. She flexed and massaged her wrists as she climbed up to her feet, still wheezing.

"—HIGHLY IRRESPONSIBLE, YOU JUST OPENED US UP TO LIABILITIES—"

”Can I go now, Sir?"

The first masked man had ripped off his mask—he gestured at Tonks to get out. Tonks turned to wave at the shorter masked man, who was standing with his arms crossed and head lolled to the side as if bored.

She was the last to finish the test. When she reached the Aurors' office on the Second Floor, she found it mostly deserted. There was only Kingsley's tall figure poking out of the maze of cubicles.

"Wotcher, Kingsley."

"How'd it go?"

"Oh—" she shrugged; she hated going over tests. "—alright, I guess. I did knock over a vase while tailing a suspect; you don't reckon they'll fail me for that?"

"You'll be fine," said Kingsley in his deep, calm voice. "Do you want something for that?"

He pointed at the cut on her cheek.

"It's just a scratch," said Tonks. She rubbed at it with the back of her hand. "I thought it'd be worse than this—okay, I was caught off-guard at the Cruciatus curse, but then again it isn’t in the grading scheme, is it, so I thought overall—“

"The Cruciatus curse?" cut Kingsley sharply, "no, they can't do that—" Realisation set into his face, and he frowned. "Oh, he's not going to do himself any favour."

"Since when has he cared about that?" said Tonks, chuckling. "Speak of the devil..."

A wooden clunking echoed down the corridor and Alastor Moody emerged into the office. He was still dressed in the dark robes of the examiners. He pointed at Tonks, and then beckoned her to follow him.

"See you," she whispered quickly to Kingsley.

Since his old room was Dawlish's now, he led her to the pantry instead. He leaned against the counter and scowled at her.

"How much trouble did you get into?" said Tonks.

"I don't work here anymore, do I, they've driven me out—"

"—into a peaceful well-deserved retirement—"

"—please, give me hell, anytime," grunted Moody. "They were the ones who begged me to come back to be an examiner."

“Well, Cameron did just lose an arm in the Devonshire mission," said Tonks, "yeah, I know, I know, what soft coddled things we've become. You never let a missing limb or two stop you from working."

He continued scowling at her with his normal eye.

"Rix asked me to ask you if you are going to sue the Ministry."

"No," grinned Tonks, "Well. As long as my mother doesn't know. Ohhhh, do you think I can use this as blackmail material over Scrimgeour's head?"

"Don't try that man," said Moody darkly. "Anyway, you—you're OK."

She wasn't sure if it was a question or a statement.

"Aw, you're worried about me," she cooed. "You know how you have to mean it for Cruciatus Curse to be effective—" she clutched her chest "—I'm so glad, Mad-Eye! Thank you for reaffirming this strong mentor-mentee bond between us."

Moody made a low rumbling noise and looked away.

"Did I pass?"

"If it were up to just me," said Moody, "No."

"What? I demonstrated perfect Occlumency, as well as strong resilience against the Imperius Curse! And I better get some extra points for standing up against the Cruciatus Curse too—"

"You still take this as a game," growled Moody, "what were you thinking, taunting your captors like that?"

Tonks crossed her arms. "If that were real, I know I'd be dead anyway. Do you think I would go gentle into that good night? I'll make sure I continue to be a frustratingly adorable smart-arse while staring at Death in the face because like hell I will let my enemy have the satisfaction of knowing I was fucking terrified of them."

"There are worse things than killing you that bad people can do, lassie!"

"I know, alright?!" said Tonks furiously, "so why not annoy the shit out of them and encourage them to get on with it and kill me quickly!"

Moody scoffed. "You're not going to survive very long as an Auror with that kind of attitude."

"Well, I'll make sure I'll be a damn good one in the meantime," said Tonks, "otherwise I'd be a bad reflection on my mentor—and I could never disappoint you like that."

"You and your mouth," muttered Moody.

"Better get used to it, Professor," said Tonks cheerfully, "There's going to be more of this—" she gestured at her lips "—from your students at Hogwarts."

Moody groaned.

"Bloody Albus, this is a terrible fucking idea," he said as he pulled a hand down his face, making his features even more grotesque, "Why did I agree—" he glared at her"—why did I tell you."

"Because you're going to be a brilliant teacher," said Tonks, "Unconventional and intimidating, yes, but brilliant." She crossed her arms and grinned. "Trust me. I'm the best person to tell you that."

Moody stared at her for a second with both his eyes. And then he left the room with the smallest of nod and the clunk of his wooden leg.

"Right," said Tonks to the empty room, "Still not big on the feelings thing, then. But we're getting there, old man."

  

* * *

 

And they've come a long way too.

The other two Auror trainees had patted her on the shoulder when they found out the team she had been assigned to.

"Can't believe that old codger's still hanging around after all this time," said Frost, a tall Ravenclaw with a permanently upturned nose.

Tonks was surprised at his tone. "He's a war hero."

"He was," chimed Bishop, another Ravenclaw and a former Keeper for his house Quidditch team. He had large watchful eyes that blinked often and watered easily. "But he's, er, lost it since the end of the First War. He still sees Dark Wizards everywhere—"

"If you ask me, he actually misses You-Know-Who," muttered Frost.

"—and he even harasses those people who were suspected of being Death Eaters. Lucius Malfoy actually got a restraining order against him a few years back. My father—" Bishop Sr was an Auror stationed in Brighton, which team Bishop would be joining as a trainee "—says the only reason Moody isn’t fired yet is because the Aurors need to keep an eye on him—he's becoming such a press liability these days—at least until they can persuade him to retire. Yeah, he was a great Auror—the greatest, some say—but..."

"Times have changed and he has not," finished Frost with a shrug.

She felt a surge of pity for a man she had never met. She thought of how Boris Davies had dumped her in sixth year when she refused to indulge him in his sexual fantasies. She was embarrassed thinking about it: of course it wasn't the same at all, and yet she could sympathise, even if just a little, with how hurtful it was to be thrown to the side once you're of no use to someone.

Moody's team was a small, four-men operation stationed at HQ itself. There was John Dawlish: sturdy, greying, stoic. He was also a veteran of the War. Linus Proudfoot was a pale, freckled wizard with copper afro. Sean Savage was a broad-shouldered Brummy who had no left ear (a Leprechaun bit it off—Tonks never did find out the full story) but had a gregarious laughter that could be heard all the way in the Misuse of Muggle's office down the floor. And then Alastor Moody himself: she had seen enough pictures of him to know his appearance—grizzled, jigsaw pieces for a face, a wooden claw for a leg—but he wasn't there when she met the rest of the team in their cluster of cubicles.

"Welcome to the team! You're our first trainee in a while—"

"They stopped assigning trainees to us after we lost the last one," grinned Savage.

"Lost?" inquired Tonks sharply.

"—you'll soon learn to treat Sean as background noise." Proudfoot reached a hand out and she shook it. "Your cubicle is this one here—mind the cabinet, we think a Boggart just moved in last night. We'll get rid of it when we have the time."

"Or you can do it," said Savage, "You're here to impress us anyway."

Tonks sniffed and made to open the cabinet, but Proudfoot stopped her. "No, no, you don't want a Boggart transforming in the Aurors' HQ. We've just renovated the place, too."

She took her seat and dumped her bag on top of the rattling cabinet. Savage and Proudfoot were still peering down at her over the dividers.

"So, Rookie," said Savage, "do you know what are the three cardinal rules of being an Auror?"

She paused to actually think the question through. There was an ethical code of conduct all Aurors were sworn to follow, but that was a list of ten, not three. Did she already forget anything from the rigorous six month theory course she just went through?

She gave it a go anyway. "Independence and Impartiality—"

"No, no," said Savage, waving his hand dismissively. "Okay, note this down, Rookie."

She sighed. "Tonks."

"Number one, Rookie," said Savage, lifting his index finger up, "is that an Auror always obeys their superior's orders."

She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. "Even if it's a stupid order?"

Proudfoot cleared his throat. "Number two," he said as Savage waved two fingers at her, "a superior's order is never stupid."

"And three," continued Savage, "I like my coffee with a dash of cream and three spoonful of sugar. John takes his with soy, no sugar, and Linus only drinks tea, Darjeeling, boiling, plain."

"Oh, piss off," said Tonks, rolling her eyes. "I'm a trainee, not your house-elf."

"Hey, this is a tradition for all trainees, Rookie!" said Savage indignantly, "it builds character and a sense of team camaraderie!"

Someone sighed and slammed something down at the cubicle next to hers.

"Sit down and be quiet, Sean, I'm trying to write a report." Dawlish stood up to his full height and looked down at Tonks. "Enough lounging about. Go see Moody and get some work to do. You can make us our tea and coffee tomorrow."

Proudfoot helpfully pointed out to her Moody's room. He muttered a "Don't worry" to her, which slightly alarmed her because she was not remotely worried before this. Savage flashed her a thumbs-up that looked ironic with his cheeky grin.

She knew that magical eye of his would have seen her coming. But she knocked first and waited for him to bark an invitation before opening the door.

His appearance was more awful in person. The scars on his face and limbs were not your average flesh scars—they looked like a map of mountain ridges and valleys, as if pieces of the flesh had been gouged out. There were missing chunks of nose and lip. And the magical eye was almost comical in its grotesqueness—Tonks was reminded of some Japanese muggle comics she had seen and felt an odd urge to laugh.

He was bent over a long parchment. From time to time he would make a note in rapid swiping movements with his quill. The magical eye swivelled in every direction but hers.

It must have been a minute or two until he spoke.

"Yeah?"

"I'm the trainee assigned to your team, Sir," began Tonks. She wasn't sure if she should approach the desk to shake his hand. She decided that she should just keep her hands visible at all times by her side.

"Why."

"Uh," said Tonks, "well, I passed my exam after the six months theory classes, and then I was assigned to your team. I'm not sure how they actually did the assignment—I would assume it's randomly made, but my classmate was assigned to his father's team so—"

"No." His normal eye had looked up from the parchment too. It bored into her. "Why are you here. Why do you want to be an Auror."

She caught her left wrist with her right hand and rubbed it. She thought she had given a pretty satisfactory answer for this during her first round of application interviews. Wouldn't he have a record of that?

"Trying to make daddy and mommy proud?" Moody was now walking around his desk to approach her: the clunk of his wooden leg punctuated his sentences. "Trying to satisfy a hero complex? Trying to have something impressive on your CV to kick start a political career?"

He was standing in front of her now. She wanted to take a step back and averted her gaze. She caught herself. No, she wasn't going to he intimidated by him.

"I want to do some good with my life."

(She only just realised how pathetic she sounded. How the fuck did the interviewers let her in?)

Whatever was left of his upper lip curled up into a sneer. "Be a Healer then."

"With respect—Sir," said Tonks coolly, "it is not for you to tell me what I should be or not be."

He was not much taller than her. She could stare back at him without straining her neck.

"Too many people," grunted Moody, "have forgotten what this job is like. Or at least, what it should be like. This isn't a cushy government job. It sure as hell isn't a glorious heroic job. It is a calling. It is a lifelong mission. Death is an occupational hazard and these—" He pointed at his misshapen nose "—are our uniforms."

Tonks raised her left arm slowly to her shoulder level without breaking eye contact with him. The sleeve of her robe slid down to her elbow. The smooth skin underneath was rippling.

"Do you think that just because I'm a witch, I would be afraid of scars?"

There was now an ugly, jagged line of pink raised flesh down the length of her arm. She tugged the collar of her robe down just as the skin knotted into a brownish scar tracing her collar bone. Then she pointed at the faint line just to the right of her philstrum, the one she never bothered to hide away.

"That's really offensive," she finished, "Sir."

Moody's magical eye swiveled from scar to scar.

"So, you're the Metamorphmagus."

"Yeah," said Tonks, "Sir."

"Don't think that I'm impressed with that," said Moody. He turned back to his desk. "Being an Auror is more than just fancy disguises and costumes."

"Good," shot Tonks back, "because I am so much more than just a Metamorphmagus."

He sat back down on his chair and picked up his parchment again. "We'll see."

She remained standing in front of his desk. After another minute he looked up again.

"Yeah?"

"Well," said Tonks, "Dawlish said you'd give me work to do. Sir."

"You can start with that Boggart under your desk. I'll call you when I need you," growled Moody. "Get out, get out.”

She opened the door and paused.

"When you do need me," she said, "my name is Tonks. Sir."

  

* * *

 

Tonks went to work next week as a fully qualified Auror.

She took particular care to reach work on time, which meant there was nobody else in the office when she took her seat at her cubicle. There was an odd feeling of waiting for something that had already arrived. It had taken her three years and dozens of tests to get here. But she didn't feel any different as she sat down in her usual seat; for all she knew time had looped in upon itself and she was reliving her first day as trainee again, if not for the weight of the badge in her pocket.

Proudfoot was the first of the team to arrive. He shrugged off his travelling cloak before approaching her cubicle.

"Morning, Rookie," he grinned, "sorry to hear you've made it. Now you're stuck with us."

"Thanks, Linus," grinned back Tonks.

Savage joined them soon. He had a present for Tonks: her own cup of coffee. It tasted like dishwater, and she only took a sip for his benefit.

"But don't forget, you're still the baby of this team," he said in a mock stern manner, "and always, always remember the three cardinal rules Aurors live by—"

If Savage was going to give her a refresher course on those rules, it was put on hold when Dawlish strode over to them, commanding them to their office for a briefing on an urgent new case.

"As everyone is well aware," he said once they were all inside his office, "the Quidditch World Cup is happening next month."

"No way," gasped Tonks in feigned surprise. Savage stifled a giggle.

"And as everyone is also aware, Bagman's department is doing an excellent job fucking it up. So the Minister for Magic has suggested that I—that this team work together with Bagman's department to double check the security measures."

Dawlish's chest had inflated when he mentioned Fudge's name. Tonks caught Savage's eyes: she put her pen in her mouth and blew her cheek. He disguised his laughter as a sneeze.

Dawlish concluded the meeting by delegating the different tasks (Tonks was to survey the different Portkey spots and their protections—it would mean spending the day Apparating into stinky garbage dumps, but anything beats staying in the office).

"Right, let's get to work then, Aurors."

They turned and left his office. Tonks put her badge around her neck. "Auror," she declared, in Alastor Moody's growl and tapped R's: the best embodiment of the word. She smiled.

 

* * *

 

“Now that I think about it,” said Tonks, "shouldn't there be a trainee with us?"

It was more than six months since she received the badge which weight had become so familiar around her neck.

"Nah," said Savage in between mouthful of sandwich, "I hear they didn't accept any candidates this year. Are you already itching for a trainee to boss over, Rookie?"

"The number of recruits has been steadily dropping over these ten years," added Proudfoot, "makes sense really, the job now seems less glamorous when compared to, say, magical law, curse-breaking, or magical banking and finance, as my wife is always keen to remind me."

The most exciting thing case they'd had in the six months was the discovery of a family of Trolls in an abandoned Muggle factory at Manchester.

"But I guess it can only be a good thing that the world sees a need for less Aurors," mused Proudfoot.

She thought of Moody. He was pushed kicking and screaming into retirement, yes, but he would have been miserable at how peaceful the world was becoming, wouldn't he? He was restless even during his final year: he took her tailing and investigating the wildest of rumours on Dark Magic activities, mostly to no avail. He must be having a better time at Hogwarts now, so good that (Tonks noted with slight bitterness) he had forgotten to write to her at all. He didn't even reply to her bloody Christmas card.

She saw Kingsley walking towards her cubicle and called out to him. Two interdepartmental memos fluttered above him like flies.

“Alright, Kingsley! How was Tunisia?”

“Very agreeable climate, but it suffered from a lack of Sirius Black,” said Kingsley, smiling. “Thanks for the Christmas card—oh, and the nougats too. They were delicious.”

“No problem, I’ll tell my mom you liked ‘em, she’d be delighted,” replied Tonks. “By the way, have you heard from Mad-Eye lately?” she added casually.

“No. But I thought if anyone would have heard from him in this office, it would have been his protégée,” chuckled Kingsley. Tonks rolled her eyes and gave him the special groan both she and Moody had for when people call her that—"a load of posh bollocks" as Moody put it. "Why'd you ask? Did something happen?"

“Nothing,” sighed Tonks, “that’s just it, none of us has heard from him since he left for Hogwarts. Ah, it's alright, he's probably really busy—my God, he's probably investigating every case of Dungbombs set off in the corridors... Maybe he's taken Filch under his wing now."

She let her mind wander to the plenty of Dungbombs she had set off herself in those very same hallowed corridors. What if she was a student at Hogwarts now—what if her first time meeting Moody was in his Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, or plausibly (given her track record), in detention? She’d still have won him over with her brand of charm and cheekiness, wouldn’t she? It wasn’t as if she was any different now than she was in school. What did Professor Sprout write in her letter of recommendation? Natural leadership qualities, creative and spirited, full of initiative and self-actualisation. (Her heart swelled in fond memory of her Head of House.) She was still all of those things! Well, maybe she had grown up a little—she could be quite full of herself last time, not that it was a bad thing. She was a force of nature then—she never worried about fitting in, she was cocksure about herself in any situation. Brimming with confidence, Professor Sprout had said—to the point of obnoxiousness, Professor Snape would have added.

Actually, she thought wistfully, she missed being that young Nymphadora Tonks.

"Rookie!" yelled Savage, "c'mon, we're escorting Fudge to the grand opening of St Mungo's new ward!"

She made a face to Kingsley. Take me with you, she pleaded silently. He was the cool Auror who answered directly to Scrimgeour with the cool job of hunting down wanted dark Wizards. Dawlish, on the other hand, was very happy for his team to become glorified security details for Ministry VIPs.

Kingsley mouthed something that looked like "next time", and left her cubicle with a wink. Tonks groaned and trudged to Savage.

"Are you just going like that?" he said, pointing at his own face because she'd jabbed him in the eye with his own finger if he'd pointed at her.

Dawlish had told her that Fudge expected his female Auror escorts to be "suitably presentable". What the hell does that mean, Tonks had asked. Dawlish had glanced at her hair (a mossy shade of green on that day), her pierced ears, and the tattered jeans under her robe. You know what it means, he had said with an air of finality, you don’t need me to spell it out.

Tonks let Savage know how she felt about his helpful reminder with two choice fingers. She closed her eyes, and the next time she opened them, Savage was looking at John Dawlish with a slightly awed look.

"You sure your balls will fit in that?" he said as Tonks Transfigured her robes into Dawlish's preferred suit and pants.

"Right, right, right," said Tonks, her voice lowering and flattening in pitch as she morphed her vocal chord to get Dawlish's rasping tenor. "Bright eyes, proud chest, Savage, we are representing the Ministry!"

The next day, John Dawlish met Cornelius Fudge in the Atrium, and was greeted with a very firm clap on the shoulder, and Fudge's declaration that he was a "good man! Excellent drinker, bottomless pit of a stomach, and wicked—oh, so very much wicked—sense of humour!" If he ever suspected Tonks of any mischief that night (and Tonks was sure he certainly did), he never did bring it up to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peaking at number 18 on the UK Singles' chart in 1992 was Man on the Moon by the Muggle alternative rock band R.E.M. It was the second single from their album Automatic for the People.


	2. Doubt, Belief, Transition, Conspiracy and Truth

Tonks was heating a cup of Muggle instant noodle with her wand when Dawlish burst out of his office, yelling at his team to Floo to Hogwarts in five.

"The Triwizard Cup was a Portkey," recounted Dawlish rapidly as they made their way down the Atrium to the row of fireplaces, "the two Hogwarts champions are now missing.

Our utmost priority is the safety of the Minister for Magic, who was standing in for Bartemius Crouch as a Judge of the Triwizard Final Task. The Minister had also personally requested for a Dementor to be transported to Hogwarts immediately. Proudfoot: get to Azkaban now and arrange the necessary.

Tonks, Savage—secure the Maze. No one gets in or out without us knowing."

Dawlish threw his handful of Floo at the ember and yelled into the resulting emerald flames: "Hogwarts!" He turned to them, nodded, and was gone in a swish of his cloak.

"Exciting, eh?" said Savage.

"Finally," said Tonks.

She was deposited knee first on very solid masonry. She looked up to find a crowd of big saucer eyes surveying her excitedly.

"Does Miss need food?" squeaked one of the House Elves.

"I know this Miss, she is a Hufflepuff many years ago!"

"Yes, this Miss wears many hairs, and always asks for food!"

"Miss, please have some Shepherd's Pie! Or would Miss rather some chocolate pudding?"

"Ey," said Savage morosely, "Why are they so nice to you." He wasn't welcomed with as much enthusiasm by the house elves as Tonks.

"Puff privilege," grinned Tonks. "Our common room is literally just right there—" She pointed to their right.

She wondered if Dawlish would notice her missing for five minutes; she was suddenly seized by a desperate nostalgia for her old common room.

Savage was waving a turkey drumstick at her." C'mon!"

They jogged quickly to the direction of the Quidditch field, Tonks's heart soaring with the sight of every familiar painting and ghost they passed. There were posters of the Hogwarts champions—mostly of Cedric Diggory—all around the castle. Yellow and black banners hung between door frames. Some suits of armours had yellow and black scarves on them. The Hufflepuff spirit was contagious: Tonks's hair was black with yellow highlights by the time they reached the castle grounds.

The Quidditch field, however, was not a familiar sight at all: it had become a forbidding fortress, she thought, bordered by tall, dark hedges.

"I was a Chaser in my fourth to sixth year," said Savage as they approached the entrance of the maze. "You played?"

"Sort of," said Tonks, "I was a Beater in my sixth year." To be exact, she had impersonated a Slytherin Beater for half a season during her sixth year, but that was a very interesting story to which justice could not be done in the short time they had.

There was a crowd of people at the entrance of the maze. A huge woman who was the height of three men was among them. Tonks quickly recognised the tall figure clad in midnight blue as Albus Dumbledore. When he saw her and Savage, he gave her a little smile. There were two figures lying on the ground—have they found Potter and Diggory?

"Tonks, it's Krum!" whispered Savage. “Merlin’s saggy bollocks, can you imagine how much his autograph would sell in Diagon Alley?”

She elbowed him in the ribs and hissed at him to be professional.

Beside Krum was the most beautiful girl Tonks had ever seen in her life. Her silver hair was splayed below her still form. The huge woman was watching over her with a motherly concern on her handsome face.

"Happily, Fleur will be fine: she is only Stunned, my dear Madame," said Dumbledore to her. "Would you like me to pass the message to Monsieur and Madame Delacour?"

"Non, non, it must be I who inform them," said the huge woman. She pushed herself up with a heave that made the surrounding ground shake, and then made her way to the spectator's stand.

"Someone should inform the Krums as well," said Professor McGonagall. She was looking around anxiously. "Karkaroff is still nowhere to be found..."

"Oh, that scum's not on Hogwarts ground anymore."

Tonks smiled at the voice. Alastor Moody was just disembarking off his broom, landing awkwardly onto his intact foot.

"Saw him took off," he growled, jerking his head at the direction of the castle gate, "tried to get him with a hex from above but—"

"Alastor!" gasped Professor McGonagall, "he's our guest and a Headmaster!"

"—a slippery coward is what he is." He spat onto the ground.

She tried to catch his eye, normal or magical, but if he noticed her he certainly didn't show it. She huffed. What was his problem? Had he already forgotten her—one year, was that all it'd take? Or was he embarrassed of her? Was that why he was pretending he didn’t know her?

She bristled with annoyance. She would have opened her mouth and let him have a piece of her mind, but at that time someone had screamed. Something appeared out of thin air—it was spinning as it grew larger and larger... Harry Potter and Cedrid Diggory crumbled onto the ground, the Triwizard Cup clenched tight in Harry's white fist.

There was a second of preternatural silence before the audience exploded in gasps and shouts. Tonks could see the glimmers of Omniculars trained at them. People were screaming, crying, wailing. The crowd moved as one—it was an untameable gigantic beast, it was charging towards them and one of the Professors yelled that everyone free needed to keep them back, they had to give Potter and Diggory space. She heard Professor Flitwick squeak at the audience to calm down. Professor McGonagall rushed in front of her, wisps of greying hair falling out of her bun as she waved her wand at the pebbles on their feet, turning them into fences.

Savage was cursing freely—students were clawing at his face trying to push through. “We shoot to Stun!” he cried.

“No, Sean!” roared Tonks, “Those are students!”

“Not right now they aren’t; these are fucking little monsters! This is madness, it’s what it is!”

And then Potter moved. He pulled the cup and Diggory closer to him. Dumbledore was already by his side, shaking him urgently, desperately.

"What's going on? Let me through—I say, let me through, I’m the Minister—“

Fudge was with them now, Dawlish a few paces behind. "Is that—?"

"Sir, please wait,“ said Tonks, making to hold him back, but Fudge was already rushing to Potter.

"What's going on? What happened?" croaked Fudge as he leaned over the two boys' bodies. "My God—Diggory!" He bent down to touch Diggory's neck, and then jumped back with a small yelp. "Dumbledore—he's dead!"

The words were quickly echoed in all directions.

"Dead?!"

"Diggory's dead!"

"What about Potter?"

"Cedric, no, Cedric!"

The news made its way through the audience like a roaring wave. Tonks saw Professor Sprouts some distance away—she had been holding the crowd back, but now she was a defeated figure, her head cradled in her hands.

Dumbledore had stood Potter up. The crowd was pushing in with greater excitement and urgency. Fudge was yelling about the hospital wing, and then about Diggory's parents. Harry was barely conscious, he was swaying, he was muttering something. Dumbledore looked at Fudge and the crowd with an exasperation Tonks had never seen on his face.

"I'll take Harry—Dumbledore, I'll take him."

Moody was in front of them, he already had one hand around Harry.

"No," said Dumbledore, "I would prefer—"

There was an anguished shout that could be heard even over the crowd. Amos Diggory was literally fighting his way through the mass of people, yelling for his son, for his Cedric.

Dumbledore had seated Potter back down. "Harry—stay here—" He followed Fudge to find Amos Diggory, but Tonks saw him steal a glance at Moody, whose eyes, both normal and magical, were fixed on Harry and only Harry.

The crowd was spilling towards them, towards Potter, who had curled up on the ground, shaking and sputtering. Someone needed to get Madame Pomfrey, thought Tonks, she had gone with the big woman, she should be called back. She looked at the crowd, trying to see if Madame Pomfrey was stuck among them.

“TONKS! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Dawlish was wrestling the crowd some distance away. “Get to the Minister—you’re the closest—go with him!”

She could barely make out Dumbledore’s blue cloak slipping in and out of the crowd. She took a deep breath and plunged into the throng of people, yelling excuse me’s, and move’s, and then unadulterated profanities, until fresh air entered her lungs. Amos Diggory was curled up like Harry was on the ground. Fudge made to pat his shoulder, but Diggory was shaking so violently Fudge retreated. Professor Sprout had Diggory’s mother sobbing on her shoulders—tears were freely flowing down her cheeks as well.

“Albus, Albus!”

Professor McGonagall was hurrying towards them. “He’s taken him. He’s taken Potter,” she said, pointing to the direction of the castle.

Tonks caught something flash in Dumbledore’s eye that shot a chill down her spine. He crouched down to Diggory’s level, whispered something to him. And then he and Professor McGonagall, belying their century-old bodies, practically sprinted towards the castle.

“Dumbledore!” cried Fudge, “you can’t just—“

“There is no time, Cornelius!” called out Dumbledore without breaking his pace, “please stay with the Diggorys for now. I will explain everything soon.”

“Always treating me like the fool,” muttered Fudge furiously. He stomped his feet in annoyance, and then glared at Tonks as if it was all her fault.

Amos Diggory did not run out of wails, but he did run out of voice after a while. He was beating the ground with silent cries when Severus Snape glided across the grounds to Fudge.

Tonks had never seen Snape like this before—he was so pale it seemed like his skin was glowing under the black robes and greasy hair plastered to his face. She noticed that he held his left arm slightly to the side, as if it had contracted a disease and he did not want it to spread to the rest of his body.

“Minister,” said Snape flatly through barely moving lips, “The Headmaster thought you would like to satisfy yourself by questioning in person the perpetrator of this event.”

“The perpetrator?” echoed Fudge.

“Bartemius Crouch,” droned Snape.

“Barty?” yelped Fudge, “you mean Dumbledore’s found him? Wait—‘perpetrator’ you said? Old Barty? Perpetrator?” He slapped his forehead and started laughing desperately. “What is happening here, Snape?”

“Bartemius Crouch is dead,” said Snape, “killed by his Death Eater son, who has been impersonating Alastor Moody for 9 months in order to ensure that Potter—“ (Tonks noticed his lip curling at this name) “—would get to the Triwizard Cup, to be delivered to the Dark Lord so as to enable his return.”

Her heart had jumped to her throat when he mentioned Moody and it took her a second to process Snape's sentence in its entirety. The early summer night was suddenly a degree or two colder.

“Sna-Professor Snape,” started Tonks, “when you said Crouch impersonated Moody—“

Fudge lifted a hand up to silence her. “Snape, what the hell is happening…“ he began.

He looked at Snape as if waiting for him to declare that this was all a joke. Snape, however, was emanating an air of barely suppressed impatience under the mask of indifference that was his default face: seven years of Potions class taught Tonks that this was an alarm sign.

Fudge massaged the knot between his eyebrows and shook his head slowly. “I don’t understand.” he muttered lamely.

A muscle in Snape’s jaw twitched. “Then may I suggest that you hear from the horse’s mouth?” He turned and pointed to the castle. “Crouch is currently under the influence of my strongest dose of Veritaserum. He has been secured in Moody’s office on the second floor, just by the staircase. I am sure Ms Tonks can show you the way; I am needed elsewhere, if you will excuse me, Minister.”

And with a swish of his cloak, he took his leave.

Fudge excused himself from the Diggorys and Professor Sprout hastily and clambered up towards the castle. Tonks had to run to catch up with him—sweet Professor Sprout had given her a quick embrace when she was taking her leave of her.

“Right,” hissed Fudge as they were about to enter the castle, “where is the Dementor guard I requested for?”

“Waiting at the castle gate, Sir,” said Tonks, “Proudfoot thought it best to keep it outside the school until your explicit order comes—you know how Dumbledore feels about them.”

“Sod Dumbledore!” cried Fudge. He groaned, and then took a deep breath. “Sorry about that, my dear Tonks. Can you—can you fetch the Dementor for me? From what Snape said, it seems like Dumbledore expect me to meet a murderer. It is only reasonable for me to insist on my right to security, as Minister for Magic, of course…”

“Er, right,” said Tonks, “please stay here then, Minister.”

“Don’t worry, my dear,” said Fudge as he sat down on the nearest bench, “I’m not going anywhere.”

True to his words, he was still there when she came back with Proudfoot and the Dementor. She led them up the staircase to the second floor. Professor McGonagall was standing in the ajar doorway, wand pointing into the room. The broken door lay a little bit inside the room. As they approached her, Tonks realised that the wand was pointed at a man with straw-coloured mop of a hair, who was slumped on the floor against Moody’s trunk like a rag doll. His limbs were tightly bound against his body. His eyes were wide and blank, and he was grinning at the empty wall in front of him. What Tonks thought was a pile of rags by his side turned out to be a house-elf, its (Tonks couldn’t tell the gender at this distance) small body shaking with the force of its sobs.

Professor McGonagall must have felt the Dementor’s presence before she even realised their coming. She turned and whipped her wand at their direction.

“What—Minister—what is that thing doing here?”

“It is here for my protection, Minerva,” said Fudge through a stiff too-polite smile. “Now, I was told Dumbledore want me to—Great Buttocks of Merlin!” He had scarcely entered the room when he jumped back out. “It is really him, it is Bartemius Crouch, Jr! But he died in Azkaban—how could he be here…how could he have escaped?”

Some people say the Dementors are not alive; others say they are alive, but not conscious—they are akin to animals whose actions are only driven by hunger and fear. This Dementor, upon hearing that the man in the room had defied it and its brethren, immediately swooped in and took the man for its own.

 

* * *

 

The silver cat was still keeping the Dementor pinned at the far corner of the room. The house-elf’s hysterical shrieking was drowned out by Professor McGonagall’s furious screams at Fudge. Tonks, meanwhile, was leaning against the doorframe for support. Her knees had crumbled under her weight when she saw—

—she shuddered. Instead of climbing up to her feet, she slid a little more down the wall. A hand caught her and propped her up.

“You OK, Rookie?” whispered Proudfoot. “Lucky me for missing a direct view of that. Blimey… even after all my years of visiting Azkaban, I had never seen an actual Kiss being performed before.”

Footsteps raced towards them. She was glad she had managed to find her own feet when Snape skidded to a halt in front of the office. She’d hate showing any sign of weakness in front of him.

“What’s this?” demanded Snape.

“The Dementor, Severus!” cried Professor McGonagall, “the Dementor, it Kissed Crouch!”

Snape’s face was almost bone-white by now. “The Dementor?”

“For the Minister’s own safety,” said Professor McGonagall in an incredulous tone.

“But it _is_ for my protection!” insisted Fudge. “Now, let’s not overreact here, my dear Professor, this man was an escaped convict—”

“Overreact?” shrieked Professor McGonagall in a pitch so high the final syllable was lost to human hearing, “Minister, once Dumbledore finds out…!”

“Yes, Dumbledore,” bellowed Fudge, “enough of this, I need to see him right now! Where is he!”

“The Hospital Wing,” deadpanned Snape.

“Right, you!” He pointed at Proudfoot. “With me. You, girl! You keep watch over this. And will somebody please shut that house-elf up!”

Professor McGonagall managed to pry the house-elf off Crouch’s body and ordered her to return to the Kitchen. She, Fudge, Proudfoot, and Snape entered the stairwell, and soon even their arguments faded away.

What is there to keep watch over, thought Tonks bitterly as she determinedly kept her gaze on the Dementor and not on Crouch’s body. She had furiously wiped her palm against her robe: her wand kept slipping out of her shaking hand. The silver cat had already dissolved into thin air. Tonks kept a happy memory and hence a Patronus on trigger. But the Dementor seemed content to keep to its corner of the room. Tonks thought of a cow chewing and digesting its food three days after it first swallowed it. She imagined the ghostly figure of the young Crouch being torn and digested inside the rotting insides of the Dementors. She almost vomited.

Her mind started replaying the scene of the Kiss over and over again. No, no, this was _its_  doing. She searched her mind for other happier memories. It felt like trying to collect water with a fork.

And then the lazy guitar riff came to her. C major. Em11. C major. The bass line joined in. _Yeah, yeah, yeah. Here’s a little ghost for the offering. Yeah, yeah, yeah_.

“Here’s a truck stop instead of Saint Peter’s,” she whispered, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

She paused and looked around. The corridor was empty. Well, it wasn’t as if the Dementor or Crouch were going to judge her for her singing.

“Mister Andy Kaufman’s gone wrestling,” continued Tonks, this time in tune, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

Her voice got stronger. “Now, Andy did you hear about this one. Tell me are you locked in the punch?”

From the corner of her eye she saw something huge and black ran past the room. She ran out of the room and managed to make out the shape of a … dog? A cold knot set in her stomach. A Grim? She gasped and quickly turned her wand back towards the Dementor. It had not moved from its spot.

She must be losing it. Were they ever going to come back? Had they already forgotten about Crouch, about her? No, Dumbledore could not stand these creatures in his school, what was she so worried about. _If you believed they put a man on the moon_ … Yes, that’s it, keep singing, Tonks, keep singing and don’t you worry…

“…If you believe there's nothing up his sleeve, then nothing is—Professor!”

A hand with long fingers beset with ancient jewels had touched her shoulder and gently pulled her out of the room.

“Thank you, Nymphadora,” said Albus Dumbledore. Even though he had spoken quietly, and had even afforded her a small smile, she could feel a tempest raging underneath those calm blue eyes. She had never been terrified of her former Headmaster until then. “The Dementor, I believe, is leaving now.”

“You’re not the one giving orders here, Dumbledore,” said Fudge's voice from behind him loudly.

“Of course not,” said Dumbledore, “I don’t imagine that Dementors can be ordered around in the first place.”

Fudge just sputtered some incomprehensible words at him. He ordered Proudfoot to bring the Dementor back to Azkaban and turned on his heels. Tonks called out after him:

“Sir, what about Crouch?”

“We have protocols!” hissed Fudge, “Are you a damn Auror or not? For God’s sake!”

“Yes, Sir,” said Tonks, her cheeks burning. She raised her wand, but Dumbledore had already conjured up a stretcher and floated Crouch’s body onto it. A white cloth then materialised out of thin air and fell snugly over the body.

“Here,” said Dumbledore. The stretcher floated slowly out of the room and waited for her there.

“Sorry—I mean, thank you, Professor,” muttered Tonks, “But I could have done it by myself, you didn’t have to.”

He smiled. “I wasn’t under the impression you couldn't.”

Tonks pointed her wand at the stretcher and it slowly floated moved forward. Dumbledore remained inside the room—he was crouched down by Moody’s trunk, the key in hand.

She stopped and slapped her forehead; she had almost forgotten another SOP. Fudge's condemnation of her failures as an Auror rang in her ear again.

"Sorry, Professor," she said hesitantly, "I have to tell you not to touch anything, not until we finish examining it. I have to cordon off the area meanwhile. Standard protocols, see: this room is now a crime scene."

"It is," said Dumbledore, his lips a thin line. "You do what you must, but I am allowed in even areas cordoned off by Aurors in my capacity as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. I will do try be careful."

"Oh," she said, feeling even more foolish. How could she forget about the Wizengamot privilege? "Right you are, Professor."

She waved her wand and the room was now enclosed in a Ministry-standard Containment spell. She could hear Fudge yelling for her. She pushed the stretcher forward into the air, but she had to know...

“Professor,” she said, peering back at him from behind the door frame, “is Mad-Eye—is he alright?”

“He is, Nymphadora,” replied Dumbledore, looking up from the papers he was studying, “I will let him know you asked about him.”

Fudge yelled for her again. She gave Dumbledore a grateful smile and quickly left to attend to the Minister.

 

* * *

 

They were at Hogwarts until the next evening. Crouch's office was minutely combed, and so were the Defense against the Dark Arts Classroom and the Staff room. Proudfoot had trudged out of the maze with a singed sleeve—the Aurors had insisted that Hagrid not collect the beasts inside the maze until they were done with their examination. The next morning they collected statements. Savage had the Hogwarts staff members. Tonks, who knew three more words in French than her seniors, were assigned to question the Beauxbatons and the Durmstrangs. The beautiful girl she saw in the ground yesterday was already up and walking. Tonks was so entranced by her that she almost forgot to write down her words.

When they finally reached their office again, they collapsed onto their desks wordlessly. Tonks stared mournfully at the cup of Muggle instant noodle—the noodle had dissolved into a porridge like consistency. She cleared it up with her wand and threw the cup into the bin under her desk.

Savage had planted his face over the thick pile of parchments they had collected today. “Scrimgeour and Dawlish would want us to produce a report on this quickly. I should as good as kiss goodbye to my leave—and my boyfriend too,” his muffled voice sighed, “we’ve been planning this trip to Japan for a year. He’d never forgive me—the non-refundable deposit was our entire bonus from last year…”

Proudfoot, meanwhile, was looking at his cubicle wall with a tired and glazed expression in his eye. “Poor Mad-Eye,” he muttered, “locked in a trunk for 9 months? As if the man hasn’t got enough problems.”

Tonks grabbed her mug and made her way to the pantry. There were very few people left in the office. Kingsley’s tall figure just surfaced above the cubicles. He was tapping his chin with the blunt end of a red pin.

“Wotcher, Kingsley,” she said.

“Hello, Tonks,” replied Kingsley, “Rough day?”

“Oh you know,” she said, shrugging. She tiptoed and peered over the partition. The map that covered most of Kingsley’s cubicle wall looked different. She soon realised it was more zoomed-out than usual. “What’s that?” she said, pointing to the land mass at the extreme right of the map, “Russia?”

There was already one glimmering red pin stuck in that new area. Kingsley bent forward and stuck the pin he had been holding a few degrees to the left of the first.

“Tibet,” said Kingsley.

“Black’s in Tibet?” said Tonks. She couldn’t help laughing at this information.

“There are some reports of his sighting recently,” said Kingsley.

“And you believe that?”

Kingsley shrugged. “Maybe he thought the Dementors wouldn’t like to brave the Himalayas for him.”

Tonks stared at the many pictures of Sirius Black that adorned Kingsley’s cubicle, and then back at the two red pins in the white land mass.

When she returned to her desk, Savage was flipping through the thick pile of parchments they had collected today. “I still don't really get what fucking happened," he groaned, “if this lunatic wanted a 14-year-old dead, why did he go through this convoluted plan to disguise himself as a teacher, get him into a legendary inter-school tournament, practically eliminated his competition for him, transported him to what the magical forensic team said was Yorkshire, and then brought him back, and tried to finish him in his office under Albus Dumbledore’s nose?”

“Well,” said Tonks, “I think Dumbledore explained it all very clearly.”

Dumbledore’s statement was the last one to be taken, and the entire team was present for it. There was an unmistakeable air of busyness around the man, and yet he still sat them down in his desk and answered all of their questions patiently. He recounted the events in a calm matter-of-fact tone, as if this was a class and he was teaching them of an established historical event.

“If you have no further questions for me,” said Dumbledore, “I have a request.”

“What is it?” said Dawlish.

“If I recall my magical law correctly, you cannot force a minor to give a statement without the consent and presence of his guardian, unless you can satisfy the Court that there is such an urgency it is an exception to this general rule. As you are well aware, Harry Potter’s legal guardians are Muggles. I have also told you all that Harry told me. There is no need to force him to relive through the events of last night again.”

They looked at Dawlish. He was not the type to let thoughtful considerations for someone else’s well-being, not even that of a minor, to get in the way between him and accomplishing his work.

To their surprise, he just shrugged and nodded. And with that, he concluded the examination of Albus Percival Wulferic Brian Dumbledore.

“You’re giving him too much credit,” said Savage, “Dumbledore’s gone the way of Mad-Eye, hasn’t he? They’re too old, getting soft—calm down, Rookie, I didn’t mean they’re any less of great heroes.”

Tonks had half-risen from her chair. The sneer on Savage’s face did the exact opposite of calming her down.

“There’s no other explanation,” she hissed, “it makes no fucking sense otherwise. You said so yourself!”

“Well, that Crouch was a mental case, wasn’t he?” said Savage, shrugging, “sometimes you just can’t understand these nutters.”

Tonks knew Savage didn’t just mean Crouch by his words. She was just about to open her mouth to retort when Proudfoot say quietly:

"So you believe him then, that You-Know-Who has returned?"

Both Proudfoot and Savage were now staring at her. She glared at each of them in turn.

"Come on, you lot." Dawlish had entered the main office, his patent leather briefcase in hand. "I know it's been a long day, but we have a debriefing to go through."

They followed him to his room. Savage was mumbling something that sounded like sayonara.

As it transpired, Savage did not have to cancel his leave. Dawlish produced a stack of parchments from his briefcase and placed it on his desk.

"The draft report is done."

"What?" yelped Savage. "John, you're the boss now, you're supposed to make us do it!"

"You were with us for the entire day," said Tonks, "when did you find the time to do this?"

"I knew it," said Savage, "he does have a Time-Turner."

"Fudge's office did this," said Dawlish impatiently, "a Percy Weasley, if I recall correctly. The Minister is exercising his power under the Internal Securities Act—"

"What?" gasped Tonks.

"—all information relating to the Triwizard Final, and the death of Cedric Diggory, are now classified. The Minister's Undersecretary will be publishing an official statement soon. Our job is to finalise this draft report—"

“And ensure it does not detract from Fudge's statement?" shot Tonks. "John, we're Aurors. 'Impartiality and Independence' is one of our core values." She jabbed at the draft report. "You think Scrimgeour would be impressed by this?"

Dawlish studied her with narrowing eyes.

"He was, actually. He's given the Minister his word he'll sign the finalised report.”

Tonks saw from the corner of her eye Savage shrugging. Proudfoot's eyebrows were slightly raised.

"If there are no further questions," said Dawlish, "you all are dismissed. Go get some rest. Oh, and Tonks—" He took the draft report and passed it to her. "Fill in the necessary details and finalise a draft for me by Friday. Take note of how Weasley structures his report as well. I think you can learn something from him."

She snatched the report from him. When she was outside his door, she rolled her eyes so far back she almost lost her balance. She stuck her tongue out at the door for good measure. Good thing Dawlish didn't have Moody's eye.

Moody...!

She rushed to her table, throwing Weasley's report on top of her messy In tray.

"We haven't taken his statement yet," she muttered. She was putting on her cloak and dragging her bag from under her desk.

"What?" said Proudfoot.

"Mad-Eye! We haven't taken his statement yet!"

"What does it matter," called out Savage. He was already leaving the office.

"Well," said Tonks through gritted teeth, "I'm going to continue pretending to do our job properly."

The last she heard of him was that he was recuperating at Hogwarts' hospital wing. She jumped into the Ministry fireplace just as it burst green. She sprinted past the house-elves waving at her and offering her turkey sausages, knocking several flasks of pumpkin juice along the way (she yelled back her apologies). She had her badge ready in her hand, just in case anyone asked what she was back there for. She only stopped to collect her breath and manners a few steps away from the doors to the Hospital Wing—even she wasn’t desperate enough to risk Madame Pomfrey’s wrath.

But his bed was empty. “He’s gone home, Nymphadora,” said Madame Pomfrey, “I must add that I protested his leaving. But he was insistent, and even the Headmaster could not dissuade him, although he did make him promise to try make it to the Leaving Feast.”

“I see,” said Tonks. She hurriedly thanked Madame Pomfrey and broke into a run again. There was no question of Floo-ing to Moody’s place—she knew he’d literally blast into pieces any unannounced arrival in his fireplace. She was lucky to find Argus Filch by the gate. She flashed her badge and spoke very fast, annoying him into opening the gate for her. Once outside, she turned on the spot and Disapparated.

She Apparated one block away from his place; she knew to give him enough time to ascertain any approaching would-be visitor. She managed to reach his doorstep safely without any events. As she reached for the tiger shaped knocker, the door opened, and she was staring at a curtain of long white beard in front of midnight blue robes.

"Nymphadora," greeted Dumbledore, "hello again."

"P-Professor," she said, embarrassed in spite of herself that she kept stumbling upon her former Headmaster. "I'm here to see Mad-Eye."

"You've certainly reached the right place for that." He turned sideways and Tonks saw Moody behind him, leaning heavily against his walking stick.

"Good, you know each other," growled Moody, "No need for introductions, then."

If she weren't in Dumbledore's presence, Tonks would have teased Mad-Eye about his memory. Apart from her having attended Hogwarts, Dumbledore also wrote her second letter of recommendation for her Auror application.

"Of course. Nymphadora did an excellent me five years ago, I believe, under a mistletoe in Madam Puddifoot's."

Moody looked at her with a raised eyebrow and the shadow of a smirk, as if he didn't expect anything less from her.

"Don't see me out, don't see me out. Rest well, Alastor," said Dumbledore, "I'll see you again soon."

He crossed the road, turned on the spot, and disappeared with a pop.

"You coming in or not?"

Once Tonks took a step inside the house, Moody raised his wand and pointed it at her. She gasped and raised her hands—the door behind her slammed shut, and various locks and bolts clicked into place. He still did not lower his wand.

"Change your hair to pink."

"What?"

"Do it!"

She did as she was told. Only then did he lower his arm, although he would continue to hold on to his wand the entire evening she was there.

"Not going to ask me a security question too?" said Tonks. "Your Patronus is a bear—a grizzly?—which I only know because of that time we stumbled into a nest of Dementors in Aberdeen. There, only one Metamorphmagus in this entire world could know that." She glanced at a mirror across her only to realise it was a Foe Glass. "Do you like my hair pink, by the way, Mad-Eye?"

In the light of his living room she could finally see him in clear details. His clothes were hanging off him. The magical eye seemed to bulge out of its socket as it whirled around with dizzying speed. His scars were accentuated by the folds of loose skin on his face which was framed by uneven chunks of grizzled hair.

She had to look away from him and feigned interest in studying his living room, which had not changed at all since her last visit: Moody's taste in interior decoration was minimalist in furniture, and maximalist in Dark Detectors. She became hyper-aware that she hadn't brought anything for him except her badge. His normal eye was already fixed on it.

"So you're here on official business, then."

"Sort of," said Tonks. He gestured at her to sit down on his couch and she did. "This would just be a pretext for me to see how my good old mentor is doing even if the Ministry was taking this case seriously."

"Ah," said Moody, "Dumbledore mentioned that Fudge was being an arse. Not his exact words, mind."

"We've had our report written for us," sighed Tonks. "It's being written off internally as an isolated incident caused by a deranged former Death Eater."

Moody tapped his finger against his stick. "Yeah, I saw the Daily Prophet—or the lack of news in it, even by its usual standard." He looked up at her. "You don't really need my statement, then."

"Dawlish might not," said Tonks, "but I do. I chose to be an Auror, I fucking went through three years of hell to be here—no offense—"

"Flattered," grunted Moody.

"—so I'm going to do my job even if my boss doesn't want me to." She leaned forward slowly. "I need to know the truth, Mad-Eye."

Mad-Eye grinned and patted her on the shoulder. "Good lass," he barked. "Might as well as make ourselves comfortable meanwhile."

He pointed his wand at the kitchen behind him and Summoned a large bottle of Scotch and two glasses. Another wave of his wand and ice cubes appeared with a crack in each glass.

"You'd want to know how they got me," said Moody. The bottle had just poured a generous amount of its content into the two glasses. "Cheers," he muttered before he took a long swig from his glass.

Moody still couldn't be sure how they had managed to get into his place; he had a good theory for that, but that could wait until he finish recounting the events. The whistling of the Sneakoscope had woken him up just in time to see a figure lunge at him. The attacker didn't want him dead—that gave Moody a pretty good advantage over him once the element of surprise wore off.

He grabbed his wand strapped on the side of his bed (elementary wand safety: you do not want to sleep with your wand under your pillow). The attacker barely dodged his first Stunning Spell; the mask ripped, blood spurted out; he tore it off with a roar.

Moody had recognised the face immediately, even if it had aged and hollowed out since he last saw him being dragged off to Azkaban more than a decade ago. He felt a victorious vindication even then: here was living proof as to why he should have been allowed to personally check the bodies of every scum Death Eater reported to have died in Azkaban.

He would have come up tops if it weren't for the rat.

"Rat?" interrupted Tonks.

"Peter Pettigrew," snarled Moody, "a rat in more ways than one."

Dumbledore had told him, of course—that was why he had asked him to take up the teaching post in Hogwarts. (Oh, thought Tonks, she had thought Dumbledore was merely being nice to a workaholics old friend who had been unceremoniously dumped into retirement by an institution he had dedicated his entire life to.) I must confess, Alastor, Dumbledore had said, I fear that something wicked this way comes.

"Wait, wait. Pause. Rewind," said Tonks, pointing her quill at him, "what exactly happened that made Dumbledore say this?"

Then she dropped her quill.

"Did you say Peter Pettigrew? Order of Merlin, Second Class, only discovered as a fucking thumb, that Peter Pettigrew?"

Moody looked at her and sighed. He flicked his wand: the quill flew back to her hand; their glasses were refilled.

One story at a time.

Pettigrew was already in the room, of course. Moody had always suspected a nest of rats in his house. If they could get in, so could he. He was an illegal Animagus—a fact even he never knew, despite having considered that filth his comrade fifteen years ago. That must have been how he let Crouch in.

Moody raised a hand to the back of his head. Pettigrew got him with a chair. The man was starkers—his appropriately tiny balls were the last thing Moody saw before Crouch stupefied him straight to his face.

Moody cleared his throat and turned away. He only turned back to her direction again after he had downed his glass in one shot.

"Oh, Mad-Eye," whispered Tonks. "I'm so—"

"Good thing the Ministry won't be reading that, eh," said Moody, jerking his head at the parchment in her hand.

"Dumbledore didn't mention Pettigrew," said Tonks, "I didn't know... How could he be alive? Sirius Black killed him—"

"Knowing Sirius I think he damn well wishes he did," muttered Moody. Tonks hardly heard him; her mind was racing.

"But if Black didn't kill him... If Pettigrew is alive..." She had read extensively about the War, she had devoured the records of the trials: the more horrified she was, the more voracious she got. She had spent long sleepless nights transfixed with the stories of the two people she was related by blood to: the aunt, and the first cousin once removed.

Tonks thought of the picture of Sirius Black laughing with such mad fervor he collapsed against the witness stand. She thought of the red pins scattered over the map on Kingsley's cubicle wall. She thought of the thin line her mother's lips become when she spot a poster of Sirius Black.

"My God," she whispered, "Sirius Black is innocent."

"Glad to see Dawlish hasn't dulled your brain, lassie."

"We need to tell Kingsley—we need to tell the Ministry, they're looking for the wrong man!" cried Tonks. She stood up so quickly she dropped not just her quill, but also the statement she was writing, and the entire contents of her open bag.

"Yeah, they'd listen to us, wouldn't they," said Moody, "the crazy paranoid ex-Auror whose brain was addled by ten months of Imperius curse, and his impressionable excitable protégé. If Skeeter gets a sniff of this she'd be so wet she'd slide all the way to my doorstep for a quote. Sit down, Tonks. You said you wanted the whole story."

She didn't take her seat. "You called me your protégé," she gasped.

"And I'm already regretting it. Sit down."

She didn't need to be told twice; she had slipped on the pile of things she'd dropped by her feet and ended up on the sofa again. Muttering furiously under her breath, she waved her wand and the quills, parchment, mints and other knick knacks leaped messily into her bag, which zipped itself contentedly.

Moody, used to her display of kinesthetic awareness (or lack of it), was already talking.

"Mind you, I can't vouch for what I'm about to tell you," said Moody, "ultimately it boils down to this question: do you trust Albus Dumbledore?"

"Yes," said Tonks without hesitation.

"Yeah?" barked Moody, "Why?"

"What?" She was blindsided by his question. Wasn't this the response he was looking for?

"I've known the man for more than half a century. After what we've been through, I'm more than justified in having complete trust in him, despite how fucking exasperating he can be. But you—what is he to you? A kindly Headmaster?" He laughed harshly. "I thought I taught you better than this."

Something hot rose up in her stomach. Tonks surprised herself by the coldness in her tone.

"Ten months ago, you were attacked and kidnapped by two men previously thought to be dead, one of whom was supposed to be a fucking thumb, while the other one went through the massive trouble of not just impersonating you, but also actually fucking teach at a school of fucking kids in the throes of puberty, all so that he could trick an ancient magical artefact into making a fourteen year old compete in a deadly tournament, and then making sure said fourteen year old would be able to win, touch the Cup, which was now a Portkey, and which transported him to Northern Yorkshire, whereupon he returned with a dead schoolmate. This is fucking mental, this is like nothing we've seen before—shut up, you know I've read your old case notes— _this is so fucking bloody bonkers_ the only possible explanation for all of this, because once you've eliminated all other possibilities, the only one that remains, no matter how implausible, no matter how terrifying, must be the truth, which is that—"

She took a deep breath.

" —You-Know-Who has returned."

She took her glass and drank the entire content without breaking eye contact with him.

"And for the record," she continued in the same cold tone, "I trust Dumbledore because, yes, he was my kindly Headmaster. Everything he does is for our good; he has never done anything, much less harmed anyone, just for his own sake." She shrugged. "He's not a politician."

Moody considered this for a second.

"Good enough," he grunted.

So he told her about Peter Pettigrew becoming the Potters' Secret Keeper. About how he betrayed them. About how he had blasted those Muggles and cut off his thumb before escaping as a rat, leaving Sirius Black to be his scapegoat. About how Black escaped Azkaban to find Pettigrew in Hogwarts. About how Pettigrew had escaped again, found You-Know-Who, and as of a day ago, successfully brought him back.

Then he sat back, giving her some time to digest his words. That was generous of him, but she didn't need it. She stood up again and snatched her bag.

"Right," said Tonks, "right. If You-Know-Who is back people have to know. We have got to do something."

"And what do you think you’re going to do?” said Moody.

"Write a report," said Tonks. She had never been so excited about writing a report in her life. "A proper one. Send long memos; send anonymous Howlers! I don't care if Fudge doesn't want to believe this—there are other people in the Ministry, more brilliant people, decent people...!"

"News to me," growled Moody. "Sit down, lassie, that report is as good as your resignation letter. Isn't being an Auror your life's dream?"

"But this," cried Tonks, spreading her arms and gesturing so violently she almost knocked the Scotch bottle off the table, "this is why I became an Auror. I'm not going to fucking sit down and do nothing—SOMEONE'S GOT TO DO SOMETHING!"

She paused. She looked at him for the longest time.

"You are, aren't you?"

None of his eyes was looking at her. "What?"

Tonks clapped her hands and spun to the direction of the door, jabbing her finger at it rapidly. "That's why Dumbledore—oh, of course...!" She grinned and dropped to her knees in front of Moody. "Hey, Mad-Eye, whatever it is you're planning, I want in!"

He turned to her, both eyes meeting her gaze. He sighed and looked away again.

"Oi."

"Oi, Mad-Eye, mate."

He wasn't budging. She got back up on her feet. "Ah!" she exclaimed. "It's a secret group, isn't it? Okay. How do I join? Is there some kind of initiation ceremony? Do we get code names? Is Ziggy Stardust taken?"

He kept his quiet.

"Fine," said Tonks icily, "If you're not gonna tell me anything, I'll just go straight to kindly Headmaster Dumbledore. I'm sure he'd be delighted to know I'm on his side."

"No."

She narrowed her eyes. "No?"

"I told Dumbledore," said Moody, "he needs to be more selective about who he's letting in this time. No more damn rats. And no wet-behind-the-ears rookies."

Tonks bristled. She was so sure Moody would have slapped her back approvingly: she could already hear him proclaim proudly that he wouldn't have expected anything less from her.

"You won't be able to understand—don't tell me you've read the damn books, you weren't there, lassie. The price we paid was too damn high. We didn't have any choice then, we were outnumbered, desperate—half the team were fresh out of school. They fought well to the end. They were good soldiers. Good people." His normal eye turned to the ceiling—what remained of his lips were curled up. "Well, the rat aside."

"I'm an Auror," insisted Tonks, "I can fight, I'm ready to fight—"

"I know you are!" roared Moody. She froze. "But this isn't something you just join in the spur of the moment, Tonks! This isn't even anything like being an Auror. This isn't a career, this is a bloody death wish!"

He grabbed the arms of his chair and stood up.

"James and Lily Potter. Gideon and Fabian Prewett. Marlene McKinnon. Frank Longbottom. Alice Longbottom. Warriors all!" roared Moody again. "They were ready to fight, they were ready to die! But they didn't know—"

Tonks had never seen him like this before. His one brown eye took on the glassy quality of his magical one. He wasn't looking at anything anymore.

"—the ones who die are the lucky ones. For the rest of us, the war lives on."

She saw the scars on his face. They hid the wrinkles, the lines, the age spots, the squalid mess called History.

Alastor Moody, the survivor.

"C'mon," she said gently, "let's sit down."

She took him by the arm and led him back to his chair. He reached for his glass; she took it first, pointed her wand at it, muttered " _Aguamenti_ ", and then pressed it into his hands.

"You know I'm still going to join," she said softly as she patted his arm.

"I know," he grunted, "wouldn't expect anything less of you." He put the glass down. "You know you wouldn't be able to tell anyone about it, not even your parents."

"I assume that's why it's called a secret group."

"Once you're in, you're putting a foot into your own grave. There's no time for having second thoughts or getting cold feet."

"Mad-Eye, if you want me to bring my own body bag for my initiation ceremony, I'll do it. It'd be the prettiest damn body bag your secret group has ever seen."

"You will be a soldier. You are expected to do as you're told. You are expected to watch your fellow Order members' backs, even at the cost of your own."

"Is that what it's called? Very cult-y: The Order," grinned Tonks.

"Of the Phoenix," grunted Moody.

”Of course it is," she whistled, "Dumbledore's always got style." She rubbed her hands. "So, when do I get to meet the delightful Order of the Phoenix?"

"Oh no," growled Moody, "you're not in just yet."

"I'm sorry, but are we going to rehash the past fifteen minutes because if so I might need more Scotch."

"You're going to take a week to think about it," said Moody, "I'll speak to Dumbledore. But nothing is final until you come back to me in a week and say these very words 'I've thought it through, I know what I'm signing up for, I'm willing to die fighting Voldemort and his followers as a member of the Order of the Phoenix'."

Tonks frowned. "One week?"

"At least. You-Know-Who isn't going to take over the world in one week. I will still be here in a week's time. So take one fucking week, lassie. Cool your head. Think it through."

"Urgh, fine," groaned Tonks. "One fucking week."

Exactly to the hour one week later, Tonks appeared at Moody's doorstep, and said in a gravelly Glaswegian accent:

"I've thought it through, I know what I'm signing up for, I'm willing to die fighting Voldemort and his followers as a member of the Order of the Phoenix."

Moody offered her his arm. She was spat out into a grimy corner of London. He passed her a paper. It read:

_The Headquarters of the Order of Phoenix may be found at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London._


	3. Sense and Notion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _If you came this way,_   
>  _Taking any route, starting from anywhere,_   
>  _At any time or at any season,_   
>  _It would always be the same_   
>  **Little Gidding, T.S Eliot**   
> 

There was no birdsong to greet Remus when he woke up today. Instead, there were delighted whoops, offended gasps, harassed chirps, furious hisses, and joyous barking. He dragged his heavy, aching body to the lone window of the cottage. The sun had risen early: the morning was bright and cloudless, the ghost of the moon still hanging on in the cerulean canvas.

Against the backdrop of God's Own Country a gigantic black dog was barking at a massive twisted oak tree. The neighbour's cat was perched at the top most branch. Little boys were laughing at the scene; indignant little girls were yelling at the dog to leave the cat alone. A group of young witches with shopping baskets watched on. One of them waved a loaf of bread at the dog. The dog's nose twitched. It bounded over to the witch and was rewarded with muffled screams, nervous giggles, and a huge chunk of bread that was bigger than its head.

"Down, boy," said Remus.

He was outside now, squinting in the sun with his hands in the pocket of his coat. The dog sauntered to him, the bread still clenched in its jaw.

"Is it yours?" said the witch with the bread.

"God, no. He comes and goes as he pleases," said Remus.

The black dog ran circles around him as they made their way back to the cottage; Remus nearly tripped over it. "Heel," he muttered, "Snuffles, heel."

"Oh, do walk him around more often!" cried the witch with the bread before Remus closed the door behind him.

Sirius Black was sitting on his bed, naked except for the loaf of bread. Remus threw him his coat.

"What do you think you're doing?" demanded Remus.

"Aww," grinned Sirius, "I missed you too."

They collided with such force they toppled onto the bed. Sirius was just stick and bones now. Holding him pained Remus.

"Are you that glad to see me," whispered Sirius once they let go of each other, "or is that just bread? " He grinned and lifted up the loaf of bread that had been squeezed between them. He broke it into two and offered the larger chunk to Remus.

"It's alright," said Remus, standing up, "I've got leftovers from dinner. Do you want some tea?"

"Please, yeah." Sirius had pushed down the biggest chunk of bread into his mouth. "Been running—flying—around the whole damn country the past day. I left Buckbeak miles away—" He gestured roughly at the broad swath of the moorland framed by Remus's lone window "—tried to find the densest woodland for him."

Remus conjured up a mug from thin air and set it beside his chipped one. "I know a place you can bring him to," he said as he pointed his wand at the kettle, which gurgled in increasing pitch as water filled it up. "It's got your standard anti-Muggle protection. Swathed in the Darkest magic, very haunted, going by local rumours."

Steam started to rise from the kettle. He felt Sirius's eyes settle on his left hand, where a fresh wound was just starting to scab. He turned to the side.

"I saw the news," said Remus, "it just said that Harry won. Is he alright?"

"He's as fine as he could be after surviving Voldemort again," said Sirius grimly.

There was a sizzle and a yelp: Remus had touched the naked metal of the kettle with his hand. "It's OK," he said quickly as Sirius jumped up. Despite his condition, he was never very good at healing spells; he muttered " _Aguamenti_ " and doused the angry red skin in a jet of cold water.

"You said Voldemort—so he's returned?"

"Aided by none other than our good old friend," spat Sirius.

Remus's mind went blank. His throat was dry. It took him a while to croak out Harry's name.

"He's fine—shaken, but he has his friends with him. I wouldn't have left him—I didn't want to, but it's not my choice anymore. Dumbledore is bringing the old crowd together—he told me to stay put here, I expect we'll hear from him soon. This is the tea, yeah?"

Sirius had found his tin of tea bags and dropped one each into the mugs. He poured the boiling water from the kettle into them.

They sat down on his bed again. Sirius recounted everything Harry and Dumbledore had told him. How Bartemius Crouch Jr had attacked and impersonated Alastor Moody. How the Cup was a Portkey. How Wormtail had cut off his own hand, and how he had taken Harry's blood. How Voldemort could touch Harry now. How he had made Harry duel with him. How their wands shared the same core—a feather from Fawkes—and how when their spells met, something spectacular happened.

(Remus had read about this rare effect a lifetime ago as a school boy. He steeled himself.)

"Harry said ghosts started appearing out of Voldemort's wand. Diggory. An old man. Bertha Jorkins. People the wand had murdered, Remus, people like—"

Tea splashed out of Sirius's mug onto his thigh. It was lukewarm by then.

"Lily," finished Remus for him, "and James."

A bird had just fluttered onto his window sill. It dipped its beak into the small bowl of water Remus had put there. It shook its head before it took off.

"A turtle dove," muttered Remus.

"Right," said Sirius absent-mindedly.

"They're just returning from the south. A pitying of turtledoves." Remus stopped himself and smiled apologetically. "Sorry, Sirius, I interrupted you."

Sirius finished his story, ending it with a very dramatic recounting of how Dumbledore had made him shake Severus Snape's hand.

"He really does test me, Dumbledore," grunted Sirius.

Remus chuckled. He knew Dumbledore had been in constant correspondence with Sirius the entire year—Sirius mentioned this fact in passing in his own letters to Remus. He also knew that Dumbledore had gone to the old Order members to tell them about Sirius's innocence.

They deserve to know the truth, said Dumbledore in his letter to Remus. After thirteen years, some scars can finally heal.

(Dedalus Diggle had apparently dropped his hat and sobbed after finding out. Hestia Jones had broken the glass of mead she was holding. Alastor Moody had grunted, and then growled at Dumbledore that he had warned him not to let rats into the team. Hagrid had banged his fist against the table so hard it broke in two when he heard about Wormtail's treachery. He broke it again when he flipped it over in excitement for Buckbeak's and Sirius's flight of freedom.)

"So," said Remus, "it's starting again."

"It never ended for me," muttered Sirius. He gave Remus a sideways glance. "You in?"

"'Course," said Remus immediately.

The last time he had given this answer, he had thought he had nothing to lose. And now there were two of them left—barely. And yet, something had been bubbling up in his stomach while listening to Sirius's story, and it wasn't the acid reflux he was prone to the days following a full moon. Anticipation, he thought to himself, as if he was identifying and naming the birds that passed by his window. No; be honest. This was excitement—wary excitement, with a pinch of shame.

They took the rest of the morning to find Buckbeak and brought him to the ruins Remus transformed in every month.

"There's already a Silencing charm around the perimeter of this place," said Remus. He had just cast a Disillusionment charm on Buckbeak, who was squawking in distress at his sudden invisibility.

"Aren't wands handy?" said Sirius as he stroke the empty air that was Buckbeak's neck. "If I had mine with me I'd be able to keep Buckbeak in my pocket at all times—ouch, I'm joking, Buckbeak, I'm joking! Anyway, I saw Dung—Mundungus Fletcher—yesterday, and he said maybe he could try get me a wand, although he couldn't guarantee getting an Ollivander's."

"Is that wise?" said Remus. He had heard stories of black market wands exploding in their owners' faces, or turning their arms into tentacles.

"Well, we're going to fight a war, Moony. I'd really like to have a wand with me when that happens. Do you think Dumbledore could write to Ollivander? They're mates, aren't they?"

There was a crunching noise as Buckbeak started on the large rabbit they had caught along the way. The head came right off and disappeared into thin air. This macabre sight, if witnessed by any passers-by, would certainly add to the colourful reputation of the ruins.

Sirius persuaded Remus to let him make the first part of the journey back "on two legs". Remus, happily yielding to his bad habit, relented. Sirius waded across the carpet of bluebells; plucked a stalk of delicate white pignut flowers and slipped it behind Remus's ear; splashed his face with the freezing water of a nearby stream; climbed up trees; fell off them; dangled from the branch of a particularly thick and knotted birch tree; stood at the top of a lichen-covered boulder and took a very loud and deep breath in.

"Dogs are colourblind," said Sirius hoarsely, "I miss blues—I especially miss reds. Fucking orgasm of a colour, red is. Let's go back up here in the evening, I'd like to see it during sunset."

Remus made a non-committal hum.

"Honestly, Remus," whispered Sirius, "this place is just beautiful. My God, is it beautiful."

"We can come back in the fall," said Remus, "the entire woodland will be bursting in red and gold; the moors will be a sea of purple. You need to see the first rays of sunrise piercing through the mist—and all these you see here—" he made a broad gesture "—it's like everything's burst into flames."

It was an image he held on to when transforming these days. Now and then he just needed something to look forward to.

As if you could kill time without injuring an eternity.

"Yeah," grinned Sirius, "that'd be amazing. We can take Harry too, he'd love it, he hasn't really been anywhere apart from his uncle's and Hogwarts—no, hang on, school starts on September..."

Sirius was a big black dog when they emerged out of the moorland. They passed by the witch from this morning; she tiptoed over the tall stack of hays she was pushing on a cart to wave at them.

The cottage was barely visible when Sirius gave a series of excited short barks.

"Don't you go harass the neighbour's cat again," warned Remus. But Sirius had already started on a sprint and left him behind.

It was another hundred feet or so until he reached his cottage. A tall man dressed in blue was sitting on his doorstep, talking very seriously to the big black dog. His long white beard and hair fluttered gently in the breeze.

Each time Albus Dumbledore arrived on his doorstep, he would come bearing a new lease of life for him.

 

* * *

 

The first meeting of the Order of the Phoenix was held around the dining table of the Burrow. Molly Weasley greeted him as if he was an old friend; Arthur told him that his kids kept saying he was the best DADA Professor they'd ever had, and that they were very sorry to see him go. As he said that, he glanced nervously at Alastor Moody, who did not join them for dinner and was seated at the sofa by the fireplace.

"I was never a teacher, was I?" growled Moody, his magical eye fixed at Arthur. It seemed that his hearing remained as sharp as ever.

"No, of course not, Mad-Eye," replied Arthur quickly.

Sirius had—with a lot of help from Remus—trimmed his beard and hair. He had also rolled up and tucked in the clothes Remus lent him so that they didn’t look too hopelessly big on him. It was a good thing he spent a little effort on his presentation: everyone had been watching him since the moment he entered the Burrow.

No one knew how to behave around Sirius—it was as if he had died, and now he had come back to life, a figure Remus understood to be called Lazarus in Muggle parlance. Dedalus Diggle dropped his hat and apologised to Sirius for ever doubting his loyalty with tears in his eyes. Minerva McGonagall's lips visibly quivered when she greeted him. She also told him that Hagrid sent his regards—he could not come as he was preparing to leave for an urgent mission. Mundungus Fletcher whispered to Sirius that the wand would be expensive, but for old time's sake he was willing to knock off his finder's fee. Kingsley Shacklebolt, with whom they went to school, burst into laughter when he shook Sirius's hands and had to step outside for a moment to compose himself.

"Kingsley's in charge of the hunt for you," explained Arthur, "for the past two years he had been chasing all sorts of leads across different continents in your pursuit."

"Yeah, I can see the funny side too," said Sirius, not laughing.

Severus Snape was a notable absence in the meeting, and Remus was grateful for that. Dumbledore had told him that Snape would be providing him with Wolfsbane potion as a member of the Order. Remus being Remus would then have to come up and thank him in person, for which he was not in the mood—especially not after what Arthur just said.

Snape's absence also meant that no one challenged Sirius's summary to the Order of Wormtail's betrayal of James and Lily, Sirius's escape from Azkaban, and Wormtail's own escape from him: Sirius had conveniently left out Remus’s involvement in Wormtail's escape, or that Remus had any knowledge of his being an Animagus.

"You joined the Order straight out of school," queried Hestia Jones, "when did you learn to be an Animagus?"

"In school," shrugged Sirius. A few seats away, McGonagall made an indecipherable sound.

"Blimey, that's real advanced magic for a schoolboy," whispered Sturgis Podmore. "Why did you learn it?"

Remus started studying the very fascinating loose thread in his cardigan.

"I was bored," drawled Sirius.

"And you didn't know Pettigrew was an Animagus?" asked Hestia again.

"I would never have guessed," muttered McGonagall.

"I did," said Sirius, "helped him with it." His voice lowered. "We were mates then."

"Should've mentioned it first time around," growled Moody, "I wouldn't have let a damn rat into the Order if I'd known."

"Was James an Animagus too? You too, Remus?" pursued Hestia.

"Yeah, James was," said Sirius with a hint of pride, "Remus was too busy being an all-round good boy and a prefect to join us in our schoolboy shenanigans."

"I think I've got my fill of transformations for a lifetime, Hestia," smiled Remus. Hestia turned slightly pink and was suddenly intent on spearing a leftover pea on her plate with her fork.

A few seats away, Mundungus was muttering: "Being an Animagus would sure come in handy."

"Dunno about that," barked Moody, "your Animagus form would probably turn out to be a worm."

The meeting went past midnight. Molly made sure there was a free flow of pastries and tea for everyone, taking particular care to encourage Remus and (as the day wore on and she warmed up to him) Sirius to have their fill. By the end of the meeting, Sirius had stopped tugging at the waistband of his pants.

McGonagall had gently prodded Dumbledore to state the agenda of the meeting early in the day and tried to keep everyone to adhere to it. But eventually even she gave up. When people were not busy staring at Sirius, they would be talking about the old Order days in equal sense of reminiscence and regret. Several times they raised their glasses to fallen friends and absent comrades. Remus had to distract Moody away from his extended and animated conversation about Gideon and Fabian Prewett with Molly. She flashed a weak, grateful smile to Remus, left the room with the excuse of refilling the pastry tray and did not return for another ten minutes.

It took Aberforth Dumbledore to get them back on track.

"Hey, Professor, I've got a question," he said from his spot at the back of the room, hand raised lazily above him, "last time you did this, half of us died, went missing, got tortured into insanity, or falsely imprisoned for twelve years, and the rest of us were only spared because of a baby and a freak accident. Can you look at each of us in the eye, and tell us it's gonna be different this time?"

"Good question," replied Dumbledore as if this was a class, "everyone in this room is some of the finest witches and wizards I've ever had the honour of working with, and I will not insult you by saying that this time around, nobody will die, and victory will be easily achieved. Lord Voldemort is as powerful as, if not more than, he was fifteen years ago. We may have nullified any advantage of surprise they might have when Harry Potter defied Voldemort a third time and returned to warn us of his resurrection, but the Ministry is not making our task easier with the stance Fudge has taken."

"Right," chimed Aberforth, "so we're as screwed then."

"Not necessarily," said Dumbledore, "we might have a plan."

" _'Might'_?" sneered Aberforth.

Dumbledore folded his long fingers under his crooked nose. "Voldemort was last defeated by, as you say, a baby and a freak accident. He is now most anxious to understand how that happened, and to prevent it from happening again."

"Harry," whispered Sirius.

Aberforth frowned. "Potter is a 14 year old kid. What can he do to the terrible, fearsome, all-powerful Dark Lord?"

"Fear," said Remus, "this isn't about what Harry can or cannot do. This is about using Voldemort's fear against himself."

"Yes," said Dumbledore, "the irony, of course, is that Voldemort is well-acquainted with fear himself, it being one of his most potent weapons against wizardkind. Voldemort attacked the Potters fourteen years ago out of fear, and that fear was confirmed, and then further magnified, by subsequent events."

"Hang on," said Sirius hoarsely, "hang on—why did Voldemort attack James and Lily? At that time you just said... you told James and Lily he was looking for them, you told them to go into hiding. And then Peter—" he shook his head. "There was a _reason_ for why he went after them, and that reason was _Harry_?"

Dumbledore's piercing blue eyes stared deep into Sirius's eyes.

"In the Department of Mystery," began Dumbledore, "there is a prophecy. Voldemort only knew of the first half: it was about a baby, born in the dying days of the seventh month, to parents who have defied Voldemort three times. Voldemort believed that this baby might be a danger to him. He further believed that this baby was the boy recently born to James and Lily Potter."

Molly Weasley was clutching her hands so tightly her fingers turned white.

"But what does the prophecy really say?" asked Hestia Jones.

"It's true then, that Harry Potter is truly the Chosen One?" squeaked Dedalus Diggle.

Remus thought that Dumbledore's smile then was more of a grimace. "No one knows," he said, "The only record of the prophecy is in the Department of Mystery. Voldemort dares not make a big move until he obtains the full prophecy."

"Knowledge is power," grunted Moody.

"And we are not letting him have that power," finished Dumbledore.

Aberforth's gaze remained fixed at Dumbledore, his eyes—as clear and as blue as Dumbledore's own—narrowed into slits.

"So your plan," said Aberforth finally, "your clever, brilliant plan to defeat Riddle is to take shifts watching over a damn door in the basement of the Ministry of Magic?"

"That's one part of it, yes," said Dumbledore pleasantly. "There are other parts to it, too—duller ones, I'm afraid. Like Alastor said, knowledge is power. We will have to undertake much surveillance work, intelligence gathering, espionage..."

Remus saw the blue eyes flicker at his direction.

"... and until the Minister of Magic comes to his senses, we would have to engage in some advocacy work as well."

"Well, I'm definitely not going to be a spokesman for our cause any time soon," grinned Sirius to Remus, "but surveillance is something old Snuffles is handy—paw-y?—for." He pointed at his ear, and then tapped his nose. "I'd be able to hear and smell Voldemort fart from a mile away."

Remus laughed, but Sirius just reminded him of something he had worried about the past year.

"Don't you think Peter would have told Voldemort about your Animagus form?"

"Oh yeah," said Sirius, "I imagine the spineless shite must have asked his good master to blast on sight any black dog around."

He finally saw the look Remus was giving him. He laughed again.

"I know what you're thinking—oh, don't be ridiculous, Moony—"

"You were right, both of you."

Dumbledore had turned his chair to face them.

"Severus told me that Death Eaters have been warned to keep a look out for large black dogs—as well as tabby cats with a certain distinctive marking around the eyes. But Minerva is not whom I’m worried about.” Dumbledore sighed. “I’m afraid, Sirius, that sending you out there will be akin to sending you to your death."

Sirius opened his mouth, but Kingsley's deep voice already interjected.

"You're still a wanted criminal, Sirius—"

“Really?" sneered Sirius, "I've forgotten all about that!"

"—the Ministry is currently keeping the Triwizard final under cover, but if it leaks—and it will—their plan B is to blame it all on you," continued Kingsley smoothly. "If the Ministry ever finds out that you and Dumbledore are connected in some way... well, that's Christmas, Easter, and his birthday all come early for Fudge."

Sirius looked from Dumbledore, to Remus, to Kingsley, and back again. He tried to laugh; it became a grimace; it became a snarl.

"I broke out of prison to finish this war, and now you're telling me I'm as good as being imprisoned again—"

"We can discuss this further later," interrupted Remus, "You're still a member of the Order, Sirius. Do you think we'd let you do nothing?"

Sirius shrugged. But once the meeting resumed he muttered furiously to Remus: "At this rate the only damn thing I can do is be your fucking house-elf..."

"Your inner drama queen is showing," muttered Remus back.

But Sirius had fallen silent. He was staring down at the table with half-glazed eyes as if he was recalling something from a long time ago. When Remus nudged him, Sirius gestured at him to pay attention to Dumbledore.

It was witching hour by the time they reached Remus's cottage. Sirius let out a beastly yawn and dived headfirst onto Remus's pillow.

"Get up, Sirius, let me enlarge the bed first."

"Leave it, Moony, we aren't that big, and the night is freezing."

It was still a tight squeeze, and Sirius had always been cold to the touch. As Sirius had taken his pillow and his blanket for himself, Remus conjured up another set for him to use.

"We need to discuss how we're going to do this," grumbled Remus. The edge of the bed was pressing against his hip bone. "How did I survive seven years living with you?"

"Hey, you're the one who snores."

"And what sort of noise do you think you make? Cute puppy whimpers?"

The bed shook with their laughter. And then stillness descended over them. Remus closed his eyes.

"I want to go home, Remus."

Remus turned around. Sirius's back was facing him. Despite his earlier pronouncement about the temperature of the night, Sirius was content with the blanket pooled around his waist.

"I told Harry—that night, the night we caught Peter—I told him that I have my own place, that he could live with me. Amazing how at that moment everything seemed possible—amazing how quickly it went to hell again."

(Remus looked away for a moment. Behind Sirius, the gibbous moon serenely cast its silver drape over the moorland.)

"Do you still remember that place, Moony? It wasn't as big as James's, but it had plenty of rooms. We fitted a baby cot in one—it had a Quidditch mobile, the same one Harry had in his own cot. Lily was complaining that James took more care in deciding the paint colour of Harry's room in my flat than he did for his."

Sirius's shoulders shook as he laughed. "Well, Harry wouldn't fit in that cot now."

Remus raised a hand; he wanted to reach out and Sirius on the shoulder. But Sirius turned around, and Remus brought his hand to his face to scratch his nose instead.

"I know what the Ministry had done to it," said Sirius darkly, "when this is all over, my God would I have one hell of a suit against them."

Remus groaned. "Please, haven't we gone through enough, why bring lawyers into this?"

Sirius's smile dissipated quickly into a determined gaze. "Speaking of law, there is one thing I need to verify."

He sat up. His voice rang loud and clear in the dark.

"Kreacher, I order you to come here right now."

There was a loud crack. Remus took his wand and lit it up. A wizened house-elf had bowed so low his snout scrapped the floor. Beside him, Sirius's face was an ugly mixture of satisfaction and disgust.

"Kreacher is at Master's service," croaked the house-elf in a deep, unpleasant voice. And then, the muttering started: "Poor Kreacher, he is left alone to do the bidding of the family's shame, the ugly stain on the Black family name. What will Kreacher's poor Mistress say if she finds the house has passed to this traitor and criminal—"

Remus grabbed Sirius's arm: he saw Sirius jerk and thought he was about to lunge at the house elf. But Sirius only leaned slightly forward on the bed.

"Kreacher, I order you to shut the fuck up."

The house-elf stared at him with its big eyes filled with the deepest loathing. Its mouth was moving, but no sound came out. In the moonlight Remus could make out a sliver of a clenched smile on Sirius's face.

"Right, that settles it, then," muttered Sirius. He pointed at Kreacher, his voice a snarl. "Go back and clean the house. I'm coming home, and I'm having a couple of friends over."

There was another crack, and they were alone again.

Sirius threw himself back onto the bed. "You're right, Moony," he said, "there's something I can do for the Order after all."

 

* * *

 

Remus found Sirius in his mother's room. He was leaning against Buckbeak on the floor, pointing his wand at the pictures hung around the room. The denizens of most of the frames now sported various comical disfigurements such as whiskers, horns, and fangs. They scowled and knocked against their glass, screaming silent curses and threats.

"Feels just like my old wand," said Sirius. He waved it; a crown of flowers descended onto Buckbeak's head. Buckbeak shook it off and took it into his mouth. He spat it out almost immediately and glowered at Sirius. Sirius pointed his wand at the bag by his feet: a dead rat floated into the air, blood dripping onto the floor—it was snatched by Buckbeak in seconds.

"Very cathartic," muttered Sirius, "feeding him rats."

Dumbledore did not say from whom the wand was, but Sirius was probably right about his being good mates with Ollivander: it was the exact replica of the wand Sirius had since he was 11 and until he was thrown into Azkaban. Remus thought it was an olive branch to Sirius, who was all but locked up in his childhood home until the situation with the Ministry improves. Neither he nor Sirius had had the chance to bring the issue of the wand to Dumbledore when the latter presented it to Sirius the evening they first arrived at Grimmauld Place, wrapped neatly in beeswax paper. Mundungus didn't hide his disappointment when he arrived at Grimmauld Place with a pile of wands bundled up like firewood only to find Sirius transfiguring the house elf heads into varying degrees of frog with the new wand.

"The meeting is going to start soon," said Remus.

Sirius didn't budge. "Snivellus is gonna be here tonight, isn't he," he grunted, "I can already hear him gloat. Would Dumbledore regret giving me this wand if I accidentally shoot a Bat Bogey Hex at Snape?"

Remus stepped in front of Sirius, his hands on his hips as he stared him down.

"You, Sirius Orion Black, are thirty six years old. You are an adult with full controls over your faculties and actions. You can survive two sodding hours with your teenage nemesis. And don't forget: this is your house, and you are hosting the Order of the Phoenix. You will do this with everyone's dignity intact."

Sirius's morose face broke into a grin. "That's a very good Lily impression."

Remus couldn't help but smile as he pulled Sirius up to his feet. To his relief, Sirius had been rapidly gaining weight over the past week. Molly Weasley would always come equipped with Doxie sprays and plenty of pastries. McGonagall had been passing Sirius and Remus a tin of biscuits each time she attended a meeting.

"It won't be too bad tonight," said Remus as they made their way down. "Alastor said he was bringing a new member tonight, remember?"

"Oh yes!" exclaimed Sirius. "I can't believe I almost forgot—'tis the affliction of the dreaded _Snivellitis_ —but you're right Moony: I can finally meet little Dora tonight!"

He stopped by his room to put on a fresh shirt that didn't have rat blood and Hipogriff feathers all over it. Most of Sirius's clothes were still in their packaging strewn about the foot of the bed. Emmeline Vance, the only person whose dressing sense Sirius had found agreeable in the Order, had helped him purchase new robes and clothes a few days ago. Sirius's old closet was empty but for a Boggart. According to a gleeful Kreacher, Mrs Black had made a bonfire of whatever belongings of his that remained after he ran away from home.

Regulus's closet, on the other hand, was well preserved. Kreacher had wrapped himself around Sirius's arms as he dug through it for clothes that he and Remus could wear; Sirius's new wand blasted him away with a bang, and Kreacher landed in a heap by Regulus's bed, sobbing and wailing.

Sirius had offered him Regulus's room, which was far bigger and better furnished than the guest rooms. Remus had declined. The room—with its posters and Slytherin banners, the neatly made bed, the slippers by its side—was pregnant with memories, and he felt wrong to intrude.

They kept to the lit parts of the house—the darkness hid murderous objects, such as a grandfather's clock that shot screws at them. A part of Remus was glad that the house was hostile—cleaning it up would keep Sirius occupied for some time.

People were already arriving. The doorbell rang every fifteen minutes or so, cueing the cacophony of noise from the portraits. "I'm going to write in huge neon letters not to press the fucking doorbell— _on_ _whoever the fuck next press it_!" hissed Sirius as his mother's screams echoed down the hallway for the fourth time that day.

Down in the basement Molly was flipping through _Gilderoy Lockhart's Helpful Household Handbook_ (3rd Ed). She looked up and smiled when Remus walked in.

"This is very handy when you are cleaning up after seven teenagers, but it doesn't have much on sofas that try to throw their occupants out of the window or pianos that summon ghouls."

A young man with red hair and scars down his muscular arms was introduced to Remus as Charlie Weasley. He shook Remus's hand and then went back to studying the many fangs and claws that decorated the drawers and doors of the room. Mundungus was staring at the silverware cabinet at the corner of the room: he and Sirius had only de-Jinxed it this morning—it now opened normally without shooting forks at you. Bill Weasley was talking to his father, Sturgis Podmore, and Kingsley over steaming mugs of tea.

"I'd have thought Scrimgeour is better than this. People did say for a while he was a second Alastor Moody, didn't they?"

"That was only because he was second to Mad-Eye in terms of catching Dark Wizards at the end of the last war," said Arthur. "Scrimgeour's always been, ah, result-oriented."

"He believes in law and order," added Kingsley, "that strength, and eventually peace, are founded upon stability."

"The irony of equating the Ministry with order..." chuckled Arthur, shaking his head.

"Oh, wait until you hear Tonks on that subject," laughed Kingsley.

"I think I've seen her around," said Arthur, "though I'm never sure if she's the same witch. There's always something different about her."

"It's the hair," said Kingsley with a wink. Bill laughed.

"Yes, blimey, the hair. I'm surprised Scrimgeour is fine with that—maybe I should give him more credit for being, what's the phrase..." He looked at his son, who smiled at him encouragingly. "... down with the times?"

Sirius led Dedalus Diggle into the room. "... don't have to press the bell, mate, the house will let you in, yeah? You're a member of the Order, after all."

"But that won't be polite at all!"

Sirius caught Remus’s eye and grimaced.

More people streamed into the room, including Severus Snape, who was wrapped tightly in his usual black cloak. He seemed displeased to have arrived early. Sirius did not once turn towards the corner of the room Snape was seated at.

Some heads turned towards the basement door; clunks now echoed down the stairwell. Remus thought of the anticipatory beat of a drum. 

"Watch your step here—" growled Moody's voice.

"I'm perfectly capable of—Ouch! Jeez, who lives here, a vampire? Why is it so damn dark?"

"And I'm the one with the wooden leg."

"Get a new line, Mad-Eye."

The door swung open. Standing beside Moody was a witch with a heart-shaped face and platinum blond hair cut close to her scalp. She was half-kneeling on the floor, one hand rubbing her backside.

Moody was already limping into the room. "Nymphadora Tonks, the Order of the Phoenix." He paused. "She doesn't like to be called Nymphadora."

The witch had straightened herself up and beamed at the room. "Wotcher! Call me Tonks, please, I don't answer to Nymphadora." She took a few steps to follow Moody before she spotted the cluster of redheads in the middle of the table. "Well, I'll be...! Charlie Weasley! Bill!"

"If it isn't half my detention quota," grinned Charlie.

"I've forgiven you; I know you did it with a heavy heart," winked Tonks.

Charlie nudged at Bill. "Didn't she ask you out as Martha Lin in your last year?"

"I only did that because Martha gave me six Galleons," said Tonks, "if I like someone I won't bother with all the games and pretense."

"Very wise," said Bill sagely. They burst into laughter.

The two Weasley boys introduced her to their parents. It seemed like she could have spent the entire evening speaking to just Charlie and Bill; Moody came up to her, grabbed her by the arm, and brought her around the room. She punched Kingsley on the shoulder when she saw him ("You could've said something to me when I asked to borrow a quill today!"). Minerva McGonagall patted her hand and told her she and Pomona Sprout were very proud when they heard that she was the only one of her batch to qualify as Auror.

"I was surprised too," said a flat voice from the far corner of the room.

"Even with an Outstanding grade in her NEWTs Potion, Severus?" said McGonagall, her eyebrows raised.

Snape's lips curled. Remus could tell he had a comeback ready, but the world would never know of it as Dumbledore chose to enter the room then. The room was filled with the screeching of wood against stone as people took their seat. The chattering died down. 

Sirius was trying to catch Tonks's eyes—Moody had not steered her to their direction when Dumbledore arrived. He seated her at the far end of the table across from them.

"She doesn't look like Andromeda at all," whispered Sirius.

"She's a Metamorphmagus, isn't she," Remus pointed out, "she could look like anyone she wants."

"She probably takes after Ted. I haven't actually met him though."

Sirius was very bad at stealing glances surreptitiously. Remus stepped on his foot and muttered: "If you can't look without _looking_ then don't look at all."

Meanwhile, Dumbledore was apologising for his tardiness: the Wizengamot had called for an emergency meeting just two hours before.

"What for?" said McGonagall sharply.

"Oh, nothing to worry about, Minerva," said Dumbledore airily, "just administrative matters. Nymphadora!" He turned to Tonks and smiled. "I am so glad you are here. Have you been introduced to the rest?"

"Yeah, yeah, just get on with the meeting, Albus," growled Moody. "Pleasantries can wait."

"Of course, Alastor," said Dumbledore. "Nymphadora?"

Tonks grinned. "No problem with me, Professor."

Aside from Severus Snape delivering a report and barely-veiled barbs at Sirius (who kept a cool head and listened with the most excruciatingly polite smile plastered on his face), the meeting was largely unremarkable. Surveillance targets were set. Possible points of contacts within the Ministry and the Underground were set. Moody passed around a piece of parchment that set out the duty roster for the month. Sirius passed it to him without a glance.

Remus scanned the list quickly and found his name beside an _N. Tonks_. He looked up across the table to see Moody pointing at him; Tonks’s eyes flickered to him.

Their eyes met.

She smiled and gave him a little wave. Remus thought there was something very familiar in her smile. Beside him, Sirius raised a hand to her in kind. Remus stifled a snigger.

The Hogwarts staff never stayed for dinner. Snape left without a word to anyone. Dumbledore and McGonagall could be persuaded to fill their pockets and tartan handbag respectively with sandwiches and pastries before their departure.

Molly had managed to set up a functioning kitchen over the past few days they were at Grimmauld Place. She had brought her own pots and pans: the ones at the house itself were coated in a thick layer of substrate that would not budge even after marathon sessions of furious scrubbing. She would also leave leftovers in charmed pots for Sirius and Remus to have the next day (Sirius's first and last order for Kreacher to make him breakfast yielded moldy toasts and curdled sour eggs). When Remus expressed his gratitude to her for all the help she had given them, she just laughed and waved it off.

"Don't worry about it, love. This is not just the Headquarters, this is Sirius's and your home—oh, what is this!"

The kitchen counter shook and rattled behind them. A muffled snarl suggested that whatever hiding in there might not be a Boggart. They both turned to look at Moody, who was finally eating Molly's food, and was deep in conversation with Arthur and Kingsley.

"I'll just put this onto the list then," sighed Molly. "This house is due for a late spring cleaning. I was thinking of asking Sirius and Dumbledore if the kids could come and stay here for the summer to help out. And Harry, of course—we always love for him to stay with us."

Remus could imagine that the younger Weasley kids might not be enamoured by the idea of staying in this miserable place all summer fighting doxies and rats and whatnot. He also knew them to be paradigm Gryffindors—they would hate to be kept in the dark from Order business happening right under their noses.

But now that the Order had drawn up plans and strategies, Remus would be out most days (" _full-time fighter_ ", as James had described this same occupation fifteen years ago). He hated the idea of Sirius being alone, trapped in a house he hated (and which seemed to hate him in return). Yes, the company would be good for him. And if Harry could come—yes, that would make Sirius very happy indeed.

He glanced at Sirius, who was now talking to a tall beautiful woman with dark brown hair, high cheekbones, and heavily lidded eyes.

"This can be quite convenient," said the woman in Tonks's voice, "I never have to take pictures with me."

"Blimey, she hasn't changed much, has she?" said Sirius. "And I last saw her, what, twenty years ago?"

Tonks closed her eyes—her face seemed to blur. The thick elegant curls were slurped up into her scalp as they turned lighter; the nose shrank; the cheeks filled up. The same young witch that had stumbled her way into the room two hours ago was back, though the platinum blonde hair was now soft pink.

"Yeah, I think it's a Black family thing," said Tonks, studying Sirius's face closely; Sirius turned his face immediately to show her his best angle. "My Dad, on the other hand..." She mimed a stomach bursting out. "And Mom always says I take after him. She's never happy with anything I do, not even of my genetic achievements. Well, maybe she was relieved when I was sorted into Hufflepuff—anything but Slytherin for her."

"Way to go," grinned Sirius, giving her a high-five. "Glad to see the legacy lives on."

" _Proud of being a second generation family traitor_ —I still can't get it to fit on a T-shirt." Tonks looked up as Remus approached them. "Oh hey, R. Lupin! Looking forward to our first shift together!"

"Remus, mate," said Sirius, pulling him down onto his seat, "you absolutely have to hear how Tonks staged a one-woman show at the Hogsmeade Fringe Festival as Severus Snape."

"It was sold out," added Tonks as Sirius beamed at her proudly, "for its three day run."

Some time into the story, Remus realised where he had seen Tonks's smile before. It was the same identical smile Sirius Black was wearing on his face.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 _03_ _March 1971_

 

 

 

 

 

“Hello.”

Remus’s eyes traveled up a winding trail of silver before they reached a pair of half-moon spectacles which only partly obscured light blue eyes that twinkled in the fire light. Lines crept around those eyes as their owner—an old man clad in midnight blue robes—smiled.

“Hello,” said the old man again. “I’m Albus Dumbledore.”

“Hello,” said Remus. He looked up from his gobstone and turned to the old man. “You’re famous for discovering all 12 uses of dragon’s blood, and for defeating Gellert Grindelwald. You’re also Headmaster of Hogwarts, having previously been the Transfiguration teacher.”

“And you’re Remus Lupin,” said Dumbledore. He had taken a seat at the chair Remus's father had placed in front of the fireplace. Remus had long noticed that his father liked to spend long nights staring at the depths of the fire, sometimes only with the company of a book; in the morning, he would be dropping off the chair, the fire he kept watch over reduced to a smoking tinder.

Remus shrugged. “Unfortunately.”

“Fortunately,” said Dumbledore, “because if you were not, it would appear I have journeyed to the wrong house, and I would then have to go back nursing a bruised pride.”

Remus shrugged again.

“May I play too?” said Dumbledore.

“Technically, yes,” said Remus. He crouched down over his gobstone, closing an eye to aim at his target. “Gobstones is a two-players game.”

“But not technically?”

“In actuality,” replied Remus, “I’m not allowed to have friends. So I play alone.”

Remus flicked at his gobstone; it shot a red gobstone out of the circle. The gobstone he had just flicked spat yellow pus onto his face. He wiped it off with his shirt, which was dotted with the stains from the gobstones.

“You can never win against yourself,” muttered Remus. He scooted to the left to take aim at a red gobstone nearest to him.

“In actuality,” said Dumbledore, “I would like to play with you—that is, if you would like me to. May I, Remus?”

Remus looked up at him again. He had several Chocolate Frog cards of this very man now dropping to his knees beside him, his long white beard brushing against the floor. This was the foremost powerful wizard in the world, so why was he here? Did he come because last week Remus broke through the door of their little cottage during full moon?

Remus took a deep breath. He stepped aside and let Dumbledore take his shot. He had always known one day they would come for him. He had always promised himself that he would not be afraid.

The red gobstone shot across the room. A yellow gobstone closest to Dumbledore projectile-vomited at his face—there was a mustard coloured smear across his glasses. Dumbledore smiled. He pulled off the glasses and tapped them with his wand: they became clear once more. He then pointed his wand across the room. The red gobstone zoomed back towards them.

Remus looked away quickly. He was afraid his greed and envy would spill onto his face. “It’s okay,” he said as he bent over another yellow gobstone, “it was a hard shot.”

His gobstone knocked another red one out of the circle. He grimaced as another dosage of yellow pus was deposited onto Dumbledore’s beard.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” said Dumbledore cheerfully, “we’re playing, aren’t we?” He crawled to another red gobstone; he moved with surprisingly lightness and dexterity for a man with such a long beard. “You know, we have a Gobstones club in Hogwarts. It is not as popular as the Chess club, but I believe they have regular meetings every week in the lowermost classroom at the Astronomy Tower. Kevin Hopwood, the current world champion, just graduated two years ago, actually.”

“That’s nice,” said Remus. Dumbledore’s gobstone shot one of his yellow ones out of the circle. A burst of putrid red gunk smacked his lips.

“And you know what else we have at Hogwarts?” said Dumbledore as Remus wiped his mouth. He waved his wand and a plate of crumpets appeared before them with a pop, its warm buttery scent wafting out to fill the expanse of the room. “Possibly the best crumpets in Britain.” He took one in his long slender fingers and brought it under his crooked nose. “I especially appreciate the ones with slightly browned edges. Please, help yourself.”

“You can’t Transfigure food,” began Remus, “it’s the first of the Principal Exceptions to Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfigurations—”

“Correct,” smiled Dumbledore. He took a bite out of his crumpet and crumbs snowballed down his beard. “And that is why I merely asked the Kitchen house-elves to transport these lovely crumpets here. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to give it a try, Remus?”

Remus bit his lip. He took another crumpet that had crispy brown edges. He looked at Dumbledore, who again nodded with that same gentle smile. He took a tentative bite. It was indeed lovely; he had to remind himself to chew slowly and politely in the presence of a guest.

“Whose turn was it?” said Dumbledore. “Ah, yes, mine.”

He put down the crumpet and took aim of another yellow gobstone.

“Would you like to come to Hogwarts, Remus?”

The yellow gobstone was knocked out of the circle. Remus’s crumpet was now covered in a layer of red gunk—he dropped it, but not out of disgust.

“Would I?” whispered Remus. “But, but I can’t.”

Dumbledore raised a finger. He reached into his sleeve.

“It’s supposed to come by owl on your 11th birthday, but I thought I would upend tradition a little, deliver it in person earlier,” said Dumbledore. He winked. “One of the perks of being Headmaster.”

The letter had his name on it. Remus traced the elegant cursive handwriting, as if at anytime the ink would smudge or disappear. He overturned the letter carefully, his finger tracing the raised contours of the seal. The letter shook as if it contained terrible things. No, it was his hands that were shaking.

“Can I?” whispered Remus again, his voice trembling like the rest of him.

Dumbledore plopped his remaining crumpet into his mouth. “Of course, Remus. It has your name on it.”

 


	4. Evenings by Moonlight

Savage and Proudfoot were in Tonks's cubicle when she returned from a dispatch call. They wore the most solemn of expressions: they stared at her gravely for a moment before speaking in matching sombre tones.

"You are going out tonight," announced Savage.

Tonks struggled to keep the alarm off her face—how did they know? "What?"

Proudfoot lifted up a piece of paper. "This is the agenda."

Savage took it from him and pressed it into her hand. Her heart beat was a crescendo in her ears as she unfolded it.

"This is the cure for your grave affliction," declared Savage, "the disease of Singledom!"

Tucked inside the paper was a ticket to Summer Boogie Night dated that evening and a scribbled number below the words " _James Wilberforce_ ". Tonks barked out a laugh.

"Oh no, boys, no," she said, still chuckling, "I already have plans for tonight." She folded the paper and passed it back to Savage. "I appreciate the sentiment, but one, this is none of your business; and two, don't you for one second imagine that I'd ever need your help in this department."

Proudfoot and Savage turned to look at each other before doubling down on her.

"Your evenings do seem awfully busy lately, Rookie," began Savage.

"You used to be determined to be the last one out of this office, and you'd always be up to join us for after work drinks," said Proudfoot, "What's wrong, Rookie? Has your work spirit fizzled out already? Or—"

"—is there a new paramour?" finished Savage with a satisfied grin. "I must say I am a bit hurt, Rookie. I thought after one year braving through thick and thin together you'd trust us enough to update us on the status of your love life."

Tonks crossed her arms, and raised her eyebrows. She pointed out of her cubicle.

"Is it Shacklebolt?" prodded Savage, "that hunk of smouldering intensity and steely confidence Kingsley Shacklebolt?"

"Yeah, I've seen the way you look at him too," added Proudfoot. "The way your eyes just have this dreamy glaze when you see him in the hallways."

"The way you crane your neck to catch a glimpse of him over the cubicles."

"The way you keep going to his desk to borrow quill after quill. Oh yes, we've noticed," smirked Proudfoot, "We're Aurors, or have you forgotten?"

"Although, honey, take it from me that Shacklebolt most likely Chases for the other team," cackled Savage.

Tonks rubbed her face with a hand and sighed. "Get out," she said firmly, "I have a report to rush. If you lads are so free, I think Denning needs help sorting out smuggled dragon claws."

They finally left when she shook her wand threateningly at them. She sank into her seat. She had always been friendly with Kingsley at work; she didn't think she had been acting out of the ordinary around him lately. Sure, she did try to find little excuses to see him—not to talk about the Order; she wasn't that daft—but she didn't think her behaviour would be noteworthy. Kingsley was her one rock of stability—and sanity—at work as everything descended into farce around her.

She saw Death Eaters like Malfoy and Macnair around the Ministry. She heard her colleagues guffaw over the latest ridiculous articles on Dumbledore and Harry Potter in the Daily Prophet. She felt work had become a tedious charade. Aurors were first and foremost Dark Wizard catchers: whither Aurors in a Ministry insistent that Dark Wizards no longer exist in modern 1995 magical Britain?

Kingsley was still in his desk when she left in the evening. She knew that in a few hours' time, he would be heading down to the basement with Moody's Invisibility Cloak. She would have come up to him and wished him a meaningful good evening, but she decided it against it.

She arrived at Twelve Grimmauld Place half an hour later with a bag of curry takeouts, which were placed in immediate danger as she tripped over the stupid troll leg by the door. She managed to gesture at the flying bag—it floated gently onto the floor—but landed in a heap on the floor on top of the troll leg. Her grand aunt was roused; Tonks scrambled for her wand as the symphony of screeching commenced.

There was a bang; the curtains yanked themselves shut; silence fell. Remus Lupin leaned forward and offered her a hand.

"Sorry, sorry, someone must have moved the damn thing—"

He pulled her up to her feet. He was smiling.

"No worries. Evening, Tonks."

"Wotcher, partner." She picked up the plastic bag from the floor and peered inside—the contents were safe. "I've brought dinner. I got Sirius the mutton briyani he liked last week." She held out the bag and gave it a few jiggles.

Remus led her to the study, where he said Sirius was. "I saw that bit of wandless magic you did there," he said as they passed by the row of house-elf heads, "very impressive."

"Oh, it's nothing," she said nonchalantly, "a wandless _Wingardium Leviosa_ is the only one I can do properly—out of necessity, as you can imagine. It used to be part of the Auror qualification requirement prior to the last war; Mad-Eye is of the strong opinion that it should be brought back."

She remembered fondly of Moody yelling at her to wandlessly Disarm him lest he kept shooting Laughing Charms at her. She still swore that the next morning she woke up with abs.

Sirius had spent the past week going through the books in the study—at least the ones that let him to. He had told Tonks that there might be something useful in these books, perhaps Dark Magic the other side might use against them.

"But so far the most useful thing I've found is the method my Great Aunt used to behead the house-elves," said Sirius as he threw _Magical Utopia?: the Fraud behind the International Statute of Secrecy_ into a pile which had grown much larger since Tonks saw it two days ago. "Not that I can use it to threaten Kreacher, mind: he wants nothing else but be mounted up there too."

Remus made a distracted humming noise as he flipped through _More Moore Monsters_.

Sirius nudged Tonks. "Get that off him, he doesn't touch his food when holding a book."

Remus already heard him. He put down his book and gave Sirius a pointed look as he took a bite out of his tuna sandwich. He had earlier declined Tonks’s curry and instead went to the kitchen to take leftover lunch and a smoking goblet of revolting-looking potion to eat with them in the study. Tonks was puzzled: he ate the same curry with plenty of gusto the last week.

"His stomach is sensitive this time of the month," Sirius had explained, "can't take the slightest hint of spice."

"Oh, I get that," laughed Tonks, "I personally find a warm compress on the belly to be a big help."

"I've never tried that before," said Remus. He took a sip from the smoking goblet and scrunched his face. "Maybe I should, seeing this doesn't help with the, er, 'before' syndromes."

Tonks leaned closer, curious about the potion. She didn't have the chance to ask Remus about it: Sirius was now asking who they would be tailing that evening.

"Malfoy." Tonks's reply was muffled from the big bite of naan she just tore. "Lucius Malfoy."

Lucius Malfoy stepped out of his carriage, clad in an elegant jet black robe that trailed behind him, blonde hair pulled into a loose ponytail, cane gleaming in the dark. A portly wizard flanked by two beautiful witches took his hand and kissed it, and then led him into a mansion sprawled as far as Tonks’s eyes could see.

"Malfoy," growled Moody in the previous Order meeting, "is leveraging his outstanding social positions to reach out to powerful foreign powers who had harboured sympathy to Voldemort's cause—"

"—or those who stand to profit from another wizarding war," added Arthur. "And that's quite a lot of powerful people. Charlie sent word from Budapest this morning: the wizarding community in Eastern Europe had already heard rumours of You-Know-Who's return despite our dear Ministry's best attempts to cover up the Triwizard final."

"We want to know who Malfoy's consorting with," said Moody, "so we can warn our overseas allies of them. Foreign support for their side gave us enough problem the last time 'round."

A tall pockmarked man with slicked back chestnut hair and parted moustache that jut out of his face alighted from the next carriage. He helped a robust woman with a feathery headpiece step off the carriage. The same portly wizard who had welcomed Lucius was back to kiss their hands and led them into the mansion.

"I think that's Harold Tusk," whispered Tonks, "American; made his money in ether mining; the British Aurors were investigating his potential involvement in Trans-Atlantic Rare and Protected Magical Creatures trafficking until we received order straight from the top to kindly cease and desist."

She put down her Omnioculars and looked at her side. The empty air seemed to slightly shimmer; a Disillusioned Remus would be writing down Tusk's name in a small slip of parchment. They had managed to Confound the gatekeeper into letting them slip into the grounds; the mansion was otherwise impenetrable in every possible sense, including sight and hearing, from the outside. The dense hedges that bordered the garden like a maze gave them sufficient cover to observe the arrival of the guests under the Disillusionment Charm; a quick _Muffiliato_ and they were all set, or at least until she felt Remus's hand yanking her to the ground.

"I heard hounds," he whispered. "I'm going to cast the Scent Masking Charm—"

His wand barely missed her eye; he muttered a sorry and then the incantation. A jelly-like sensation crept down her body; her nose went numb.

"This is why I hate this spell," muttered Tonks, sounding like she had a cold. She finally heard barks approaching them. "Woah. Your hearing's real good, mate."

"Time of the month," mumbled Remus.

"Mine only gives me zits and cramps, how unfair—hang on, another one's coming." She stood up and brought the Omnioculars back to her eyes. "Big hair. Big face. Big butt. Ah! That is Herr Ernst Rußwurm, exclusive distributor of novelty contraceptions such as the Dragon Breath Canon Fire and synthetic Basilisk poison still used for capital punishments in some jurisdictions. We investigated his local representative office for aiding and abetting illicit procurement of Classified Substances, but we couldn't touch him at all."

"It sounds like they're having one hell of a party," said Remus.

"Here comes the entertainment," whispered Tonks.

A black van roared past the front gates. It navigated the path up to the lobby of the mansion, where it deposited a handful of wizards and witches in artfully torn robes. One of them was already enlarging a double-necked guitar she kept as a pendant around her neck.

"Are you fucking kidding me?! The Bastard Banshees? Oh man, somebody should absolutely leak this to the scene: fucking playing for a bunch of heartless corporate goons, this is the mother of all selling out! I can't believe this, until thirty seconds ago I had the biggest fucking crush on Narsha—"

"The Bastard Banshees, got it," said Remus somberly as his quill scratched against the parchment.

Tonks dropped to the ground and felt the empty air until she found Remus's hand. "Don't write that down—I don't think the Bastard Banshees is actually involved in lobbying for Voldemort in foreign wizarding communities. Mad-Eye would think I'm not taking this seriously."

"Alastor does want as complete a list of the attendees as possible. And this is my handwriting, Tonks: he could only blame _me_ for not taking this seriously."

Remus's warm breath made her realise his face was just in front of hers. She let go of his hand and stood up to continue watching over the arrivals.

Half an hour later, the grounds of the mansion was devoid of any activity except for the occasional wandering guard and hound. They pressed themselves close against the hedges; she brushed against Remus's invisible limbs time and again.

Tonks was used to stakeouts. She spent many nights squeezed together with Moody under his Invisibility Cloak watching Underground figures slunk in and out of nondescript buildings. Savage would bring doughnuts and sweets to theirs. With Proudfoot, a fellow Half-Blood, she would share the earpieces of a Walkman and listen to the latest charting Muggle record.

With Remus, she got stories of his school days with Sirius, James Potter, and Peter Pettigrew told hoarsely under his breath. She got broken chunks of dark chocolate which she stuffed immediately in her mouth because nothing attracts attention like a floating chocolate bar. She got a listening ear to her tales of being a perpetual disappointment to her mother, of her suspicions that they might have let the wrong person qualify to be an Auror and that any day now they would rectify that mistake, of her fear that he must be judging her for so easily spilling her boring sob stories to him.

At that stage, she would usually find something to distract themselves from the embarrassing embers of her personal life. For that night, she had stood up, watched the mansion through her Omnioculars again before declaring that it was stupid to continue staring at the locked doors, and that they should get inside and get a sense of what Malfoy was up to.

"Alastor only wanted the list of attendees," Remus pointed out.

"This is for extra credits, then," said Tonks, "c'mon, I thought that's the sort of thing you're into."

There was some rustling as Remus unfolded his limbs to stand up and look at the mansion over the hedge. "And how are we going to get in? We weren't prepared for this sort of mission."

"No," whispered Tonks, "I'm born prepared for this sort of mission."

She Stunned the next guard who passed by them. "Just stay here, I'll be back in fifteen. If not, well, go back and you can tell Mad-Eye it was all my fault. Oh and do Confound him for good measure before you leave." She searched the Stunned guard for his wand, Disillusioned him, and dragged him under the hedges.

"Wait, Tonks," said Remus, "We need to think this through—"

"I've done this plenty times before," said Tonks cheerfully as she threw the guard's wand to Remus. She crouched down low, and then lifted the Disillusionment Charm over herself; she had already morphed into the guard. She pointed her wand at herself and Transfigured her robe to that of the guard.

"How does he sound—bollocks, I forgot—" Her voice remained nasal even as it turned deep. "—best keep the Scent Masking Charm on me with those dogs on the prowl, huh."

"Tonks—"

"Fifteen minutes," she whispered as she stood up—this guy was tall, he was easily a head over the top of the hedges. She casually made one round of the grounds before walking up to the mansion. There was a side entrance—she was in luck, only one man dressed in the waistcoat and tie of the service staff was smoking in front of it. She gave her surroundings a quick scan—upon her satisfaction that the coast was clear, she Stunned the man, and dragged him into the nearby broom cupboard. She emerged from it with the service staff's face and clothes.

The side door slammed open, and a little man with a thin pencil moustache pulled her with surprising strength inside.

"How many smoking breaks must you take in an hour, Biggs!" hissed the man as he threw a tray to her. She barely had caught it when the man flicked his wand and sent glasses of cocktail zooming towards her.

Massive chandeliers ladened with glinting jewels floated over the ballroom. The Bastard Banshees was playing her favourite song of theirs; unlike in their previous gigs she had been to, no one here was remotely rocking to them. Wizards and witches in elegant dress robes crossed from one island of standing tables to another, as service staff like the man she was impersonating flitted in and out balancing trays of dainty portions of drink and food. Tonks noted that the guests could order their food by announcing their dish of choice to a menu card propped on each table—the display of their servitude was a gimmick to be consumed by the guests like the music and the food.

She easily spotted Lucius Malfoy's silver head in the crowd. She made to follow him—she was stopped again and again for the drinks on her tray. Once she had a clear path to Malfoy, Pencil Moustache grabbed her arm and muttered furiously for her to refill her tray.

Her second approach was a success. She hovered around the group Malfoy was talking to, deftly avoiding any eye contact with other guests and dodging those that attempted to take a drink from her. It was hard to catch much of Malfoy's conversation with The Bastard Banshees's roaring in the background.

She pushed her way closer, offering drinks to people who were already nursing a glass of their own.

"—headmaster... son's school... overdue for... Ministry oversight."

A man with severely parted hair was in her face. "Hey, garçon, fetch me another vodka martini, will you?"

Malfoy's group was drifting away. Tonks nodded at the man, swerved around him, and followed the bobbing blonde head.

A hunched old man with a flat black toupee precariously balanced over a sparsely populated scalp was speaking in a stentorian voice that carried over The Bastard Banshees' screaming.

"Yes, you have a point there, Lucius. Dumbledore has always been eccentric, of course—"

Malfoy's voice still wasn't as clear. "—older, too old... retirement before..." Tonks squeezed between a couple to get even closer to him.

"Chairmanship of the International Confederation of Wizards is a taxing responsibility indeed," said the hunched old man in a foreign accent Tonks couldn't quite place.

"Are you trying to buy our votes, Lucius?" said a wheezy witch with wiry grey head. The hunched old man roared a boisterous laughter.

"Oh, Gretchen, you are always such a mean tease," said Malfoy, joining in the laughter. "We are friends here—just friends discussing the pressing development of the day."

"Yes, of course," said the witch, "it is just a coincidence that your friends around this table are members of the International Confederation of Wizards, and that a vote on the Board is coming up."

"This is a gathering of the most relevant wizards and witches today, so of course there will be much overlap with membership of the ICW," said Malfoy smoothly, "and you know I am not interested in politics, Gretchen. I merely have my opinions—and I am always keen to hear those of the greatest minds today."

"Oi!" A hand had grabbed Tonks's shoulder; it was the man who had asked her for a drink just now. "Where's my martini!"

Pencil Moustache was beside her as if Summoned, apologising profusely to the man, and then sending Tonks back to the kitchen to fetch the requested drink. She happily complied. She placed the tray on an empty spot on the kitchen counter, earning a confused look from a nearby house-elf filling a bucket with white baits.

"Smoke break," she said to the house-elf, slipping a cigarette in her mouth.

In the next few minutes, Pencil Moustache might find Biggs just waking up from a quick nap during his smoking break. Tonks couldn't be sure—she was by then the tall guard ducking behind the hedges who slipped into thin air as Remus's wand tapped her: she felt something wet and cold trickle down her body as the Disillusionment Charm took effect.

She carefully floated the Stunned guard's body to the edge of the trail, his wand back in its original pocket. She lobbed a Revival spell and then a Confounding Charm at him in quick succession. She grabbed whatever piece of Remus she found and pressed him close to the hedges as the guard groggily lumbered past, muttering about his lack of judgment in having a few pints of Fire Whisky before work.

"Fifteen minutes," said Tonks. She felt the vibration of Remus's back against her as he sighed and chuckled.

"Trying to get Dumbledore kicked out as Chairman of the International Conference of Wizards?" said Sirius.

He was still awake in the study when they got back. The pile of books to be discarded was now stacked to the brim of a massive box he was leaning against. One of the dusty bottles of wine they had found in the pantry lay on its side beside him; another one was nursed between his legs.

"You-Know-Who is clearly too happy in assisting the Ministry with discrediting Dumbledore," added Tonks. She was heating up leftover naan with her wand for supper—she burned a spot while she was telling Sirius about her fifteen minutes of foray into the mansion.

"Don't think there's much we can do for this, but I'll put it down."

Sirius had volunteered to write a daily round-up of news and intelligence for the Order to keep everyone on the same page—in a literal sense of the word, as a new edition of the round-up appeared everyday on what usually looked like a flier for magical laundry services, if the reader had the correct password.

"Do you do this sort of thing often for your job?" inquired Remus. _More Moor Monsters_ was in his hands again, unopened.

"When the occasion calls for it," said Tonks, "the higher up the person I impersonate, the harder it gets. I'd have to study them before hand—like their quirks, their manner of speech, their background. My accents are rubbish, though—Mad-Eye once got me this mouth spray from Zonko's that supposedly gives you an Irish accent for a mission out of sheer desperation. It didn't work very well—quite offensive, really—I would have rightly get beaten up the second I open my mouth in Belfast."

"I'm great with accents!" grinned Sirius. "I spent my fourth year in school speaking to Filch in different accents every time I saw him."

Remus made a shrugging movement behind his book that he badly disguised with a cough.

"Man, being a Metamorphmagus sounds like the bee's knees," said Sirius, "it's definitely not something in the Black family tree—ah, the delicious irony of Andromeda being blasted off the tapestry when she introduced something proper good to the line."

"Ah well, it can be overrated," said Tonks as humbly as she could, "it's not something other witches and wizards can't do without a good stock of Polyjuice Potion."

Sirius laughed. He picked up the bottle of Butterbeer and took a long swig from it. "Anyway, Dumbledore wouldn't let me out even if I were a Metamorphmagus with a great talent at accents."

Remus had opened his book, but Tonks could see that his eyes were not moving.

"Invisibility Cloak, Disillusionment Charm, Polyjuice Potion—they're good enough for the rest of the Order and the Aurors," continued Sirius, "but no, with me he's like ' _I can't risk you, Sirius_.'" He chortled. "Funny, he didn't have a problem asking us risk our necks last time—"

He turned to Remus, who was still looking down at the book on his lap.

"—bloody hell, you'd think I'm a fragile ill child judging from the way he's just smothering me with such concern and protection."

Tonks trampled the naan flat under her knees in her hurry to scoot to Sirius.

"Hey, maybe I can ask Mad-Eye to speak to Dumbledore about this," she said brightly, "he can remind Dumbledore you're a good asset to the Order in a time we need all the manpower we've got. He's even said before that you were a terrific duelist—" she cleared her throat and took on a deep gravelly voice "—aye, it cannae be denied, that Sirius, bonnie lad he is, is very guid with his wand..."

Sirius was roaring with laughter. Remus looked up at her from his book, a hand covering his mouth.

"Oh my God, what in Merlin's drooping left bollock is that?" choked Sirius as he wiped a tear from his eye. "You are absolutely terrible—do you do this in front of Alastor? How far did he kick your arse to?"

"I'm terrible, am I? Let's hear your Scottish accent then," grinned Tonks. "Your pick of which."

Sirius waved his hand. "Please, lassie, this is no difficult at all. Give me a proper challenge."

"And what was that?"

"Highland: Minerva's accent!"

"I hope for your sake that isn't Minerva McGonagall."

"Oh God, I don't want to bear witness to this," muttered Remus as he got up with his book and headed towards the door.

"Remus has a great Welsh accent," said Sirius in a stage whisper, "he used to have a bit of a Welsh lilt in his first two years in school, actually. His mother was from Cardiff."

"Oh," said Tonks. Remus never talked about his childhood beyond his time in school—he never talked much beyond his time in school. "Did you live in Cardiff, Remus? My Dad has relatives there."

"Not since I was six," said Remus by the door. "It's late, Sirius, go turn in—"

Sirius replied with two choice fingers. "Stuff yourself, Dad."

"I should go too," said Tonks. She looked at the squashed naan. "Sorry about that, I'll clear it up."

"No, no. Leave it, it's fine, I'll get that," said Remus, "I'll walk you out."

"I think I can handle a short trip down the staircase, Remus," chuckled Tonks. "See ya, 'cuz."

"I'll come," said Sirius. He groaned as he scrambled up to his feet and stepped on the naan on the way to the door. "Don't you dare insinuate that I'm drunk," he warned as he passed them, "I just need to stretch my legs."

They stopped in front of one of the house elf heads, which Tonks said reminded her of Yoda—a small green creature in Star Wars, she explained quickly, a Muggle movie her father took her to watch as a little girl.

"We watched that; James and Lily took us to Leicester Square to see it after school ended," said Sirius. "These Muggles are hilarious—they think magical powers is this thing called the Force. But I don't remember any small green house-elf ..."

"I think Yoda first appeared in Empire Strikes Back—that was released a few years later," said Tonks.

"There was a sequel?"

"It was a trilogy," replied Tonks. "Tell you what: I'm sure my parents wouldn't mind if I borrow their video player for a few days—my Dad has got a pretty impressive Laserdisc collection, he should have the Star Wars movies as well—ah, and I'd have to get a telly too!"

Sirius glanced at Remus.

"This sounds alien to me as well," said Remus.

" _Alien_!" cried Tonks, "You need to watch that too! Listen, our next duty is on Saturday, we can have a marathon movie night afterwards if you'd like."

Sirius and Remus did not look very enthused.

"Saturday is full moon," began Sirius.

"Okay," said Tonks slowly.

"Emmeline is on duty with you for Saturday," pointed out Remus.

"Oh," said Tonks. Now that Remus had mentioned it, the roster might have listed just that. She simply took it for granted that after three weeks, she would continue being paired with him for the rest of the month. "Well, I can still come back here afterwards, I mean, if you'd like me to—"

"Wait, Tonks," interjected Remus, "you didn't know?"

"Know... what?"

He exchanged looks with Sirius, who shrugged.

"That I'm a werewolf?" said Remus.

Tonks felt that the Yoda house-elf above the two of them was judging her for being a massive idiot wanker. His premature ageing. His quips about _the time of the month_. Sirius's nickname for him. How thick could she get?

She hurried her brain to come up with the right thing to say—the silence was increasingly more unbearable every passing second.

"I didn't," said Tonks finally.

"Sorry—"

"There's nothing to be sorry about!" said Tonks adamantly.

Remus smiled weakly. "I thought everyone in the Order already knows. Well, I thought _everyone_ already knows. The Daily Prophet did publish several letters and articles about me after I resigned from Hogwarts."

"Woah, woah." Tonks help up her hands. "You taught at Hogwarts?"

"He was only the best Defence against the Dark Arts professor the school's had in years," grinned Sirius. Remus rolled his eyes and muttered at Sirius to stop exaggerating.

"Wicked," whispered Tonks. She could already see him as a professor: she knew Sirius wasn't lying, the Remus she had come to know these past few weeks would have made an excellent professor.

And it would've been a damn good look for him too, added a small voice inside her.

"Alastor didn't tell you about me?" asked Remus.

"No," answered Tonks, "though he once mentioned having a werewolf friend, said that he was a good man and—"

She felt her cheeks flush hot and stared at her boots instead.

"What?" probed Sirius.

"Nothing," mumbled Tonks. Maybe one day she could tell them about _that_ mission for a laugh, but today was definitely not that day. "Er, is there anything I can do to help for... for the full moon?"

"Thanks, but I'll be fine," smiled Remus.

"He's got me," added Sirius, "Professional werewolf nanny."

Remus sighed. "Honestly, Sirius, I've got the Wolfsbane Potion—"

"We've talked about this, Moony," said Sirius firmly, "You aren't going to transform alone, you're doing it here with me. End of."

"It is a good idea to be in a secure place while transforming under the influence of the Wolfsbane Potion," blurted out Tonks, "keeps you safe from would-be poachers."

They both gave her a quizzical look.

"There was this mission—I'll tell you about it next time. Anyway," she said quickly, "what about next Saturday?"

"Next Saturday?" echoed Remus.

"Do keep up, Professor," grinned Tonks, "I believe we were talking about a movie marathon."

 

* * *

 

Tonks spent her lunch hour flipping through the Daily Prophet archive in the Aurors' library. There were indeed angry letters published around this time last year.

" _We parents trusted Dumbledore to provide our children with a safe home nine months in one year. He has betrayed that trust by hiring this dangerous monster as a teacher_ ," fumed B. Stones from Lincolnshire.

" _It is clearly imperative for the Ministry to look into whether the subject of Defence against the Dark Arts should still be taught in Britain. Certainly, the lack of qualified teaching pool as exemplified by hiring a Dark Creature students would otherwise learn to defend themselves against in class suggests a poor prognosis for the subject_ ," opined T. Mason from Sheffield.

There was also a small article at the back of the paper reporting a vote in the Hogwarts Board of Directors to limit the Headmaster's powers in making teaching appointments—it was defeated with the slim margin of one vote. A concerned parent was quoted in the article: one Lucius Malfoy thought there was a disturbing lack of checks and balances on the powers of the Hogwarts Headmaster, a figure responsible for the future of the wizarding world.

Tonks went back to her desk with an empty but boiling stomach. Remus Lupin—a monster? How fucking dare they! They didn't know him at all. They didn't know how smart and kind and brave he was. They didn't know how sharp his dry wit could be. They didn't know how his hoarse voice easily slipped into a husky tenor; or how his hazel eyes were tinged with flecks of amber; or how his smile was like the sunrise—how it crept slowly across his face and how it glowed, how it filled you up with warmth and confidence—

"What'd you eat for lunch, Rookie? Seems like you're having an allergic reaction: you're all red!" called out Savage.

Tonks groaned and buried her face in her arms.

It was Sunday morning by the time she and Emmeline were done with their duty. She popped by her favourite 24-hour kebab shop, and then she was off to Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

The house was deathly still. The silvery light of the full moon streamed through the moldy window of the staircase landing, catching in the wrinkles of the ugly house-elf heads. She lit her wand, then slowly and carefully made her way to the kitchen. When the light turned on she jumped and almost fired a hex at Sirius.

"What are you doing here?" he said. A black satin robe was loosely draped over his body—she could see the contours of his ribs poking out of his skin.

"Supper," said Tonks, lifting the takeout bag. "Is he... okay?"

"He's asleep," said Sirius, "Thanks for the food. He's usually ravenous after a transformation."

"No problem," said Tonks. After they said their goodbyes, she turned around to see the shadow of a large four legged beast running up the stairs.

 

* * *

 

The Weasleys moved into Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place around a week after the end of the school year. The house was less of a miserable place overnight—it was softened by the yells and laughters of the younger Weasleys, and the pops of the Weasley twins Apparating every second step they took. All the red certainly brightened up the gloomy hallways.

The mission to cleanse the house commenced in earnest. The Weasley kids were put to work wiping, sweeping, and scrubbing (the twins were strictly forbidden from using their wands for these chores after the floors of the second corridor became so slippery an unsuspecting Kreacher slid off the edge and rolled down the stairs—Sirius thought it was a brilliant piece of magic). Molly fixed the toilet that spat out its contents when flushed. Sirius and Remus tamed the organ in the study that summoned the wails of a ghoul from within the walls of the house. Within a week, the basement and the dining room were spotless and safely habitable.

Dinner became a lively affair. Tonks didn't need more excuse to stay for dinner at Grimmauld Place after meetings, but Molly's cooking was a definite bonus. She immediately liked the Weasley kids as well. She remembered Fred and George from school: they were already renowned and/or notorious by her sixth year, overworking Filch to the point that she got away with a lot of her 'steam-letting activities'. Ron Weasley was "a top bloke" according to Sirius, and Tonks believed him: the kid had a huge heart underneath the goofy smile. And then there was Ginny Weasley, whom she first met smacking her scrubbing brush square at one of the twins' face from across the room.

"You're right, George, some things **are**  better without magic," the girl had said calmly.

She was seated next to Ginny for dinner that evening. "Are you in the Quidditch team in school?" asked Tonks as Ginny passed her a plate of sausages.

"No," replied Ginny, "I've never tried out for the team."

"Oh, why not!" said Tonks, "that was a hell of a throw you did this afternoon. You'd make an amazing Chaser, Ginny."

Ginny tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled to her food. "It was just a stupid thing," she muttered.

"It was like Francine Foster's winning goal for the Holyhead Harpies two seasons ago that let them win the game—"

"—despite losing the Snitch!" finished Ginny. "Are you a Harpies fan too?"

"Hell yeah," grinned Tonks, "their current Keeper went to school with me—"

"Oh my God, Arden Millet? You're joking!"

"We were mates—she was in a different house—Slytherin, Hufflepuff—" she pointed to herself, "—but we were pretty tight, tight enough for her to send me a Quaffle signed by the entire team last season as a birthday present."

The door opened, and Ron walked into the room. He took a seat beside the twins and immediately helped himself to a generous serving of baked potatoes.

"What did Dumbledore want from you?" asked Fred—or George; Tonks still couldn't tell them apart.

Ron shrugged. He shovelled a large chunk of potatoes into his mouth.

"Come on, Ron, you're not special enough for Dumbledore to talk to," said the other twin, "it's got to do with..."

They looked around and lowered their voices. The Weasley kids couldn't hide their curiosity about the Order. Once, Tonks exited a meeting to go to the bathroom and found Ron and Ginny casually lounging about, each of them sporting one red ear. She was sure Fred and George were planning something—she caught whispers of deploying prototypes of something to do with an ear as they lurked around the basement before dinner.

"Are you busy tonight, Tonks?" said Ginny.

"Yeah," said Tonks, "I've got—"

She held her tongue as Ginny continued to look at her with innocent brown eyes. Oh, the girl was good.

"I've got work," finished Tonks.

"Is it for the Order?" pressed Ginny.

"Yep," said Tonks. There was no harm telling her that. "That's all I'm gonna tell you, Ginny, sorry. Your mother would kill me if I say anything more."

"Okay," said Ginny, "whatever it is you're doing, are you doing it with Professor Lupin?"

Tonks swallowed her sausage too quickly and coughed.

"He's been looking at you a lot the past ten minutes, like he's checking if you're done with dinner," continued Ginny. "So are all Order work done in pairs? Or is it just for special missions?"

Tonks held up a finger and shook it as she downed her glass of water. "Gotta go." She stood up and knocked her chair backwards as she hauled her bag on her shoulder. Ginny giggled. "See you, Ginny."

She thanked Molly for the lovely dinner when she passed her on the way out of the room. Remus had already made his way out and was waiting for her on the narrow corridor of the first floor.

"Wotcher, partner," said Tonks.

"Evening, Tonks," said Remus.

"Sorry you're stuck with me for another month," grinned Tonks.

"It's my pleasure," said Remus with a smile that made her stomach turn because this sight before her was the literal opposite of _monstrous_. "Shall we?"

They spent the night in the premises of Charles Willoughby, who was a prominent supporter of Voldemort's views, and now a great patron of many of the Ministry's—particularly Fudge's—causes. Despite his political leanings, he had an extensive network of contacts among Muggle politicians and businessmen.

"What is it that these people want?" whispered Tonks. They were in Willoughby's study, carefully flipping through the papers immaculately stacked on a large desk that seemed to be carved out of a single marble piece. "Is it gold?"

"Power," replied Remus. "Power that distinguishes you above other people. Power that lets you do whatever you want. Power that lets you shape the world as you see fit." He pointed his lit wand at a display on the wall. An Order of Merlin (Second Class) and an Order of the British Empire were displayed among photographs of Willoughby with prominent statesmen, only some of which were moving.

"Gold can only get you so far. The language of power is that of fear and respect."

A magnificent quill made of what Remus described as brown sicklebill feather perched erect on the desk. Tonks took out a parchment and a bottle of ink from her bag.

"Aurors have a spell to make a quill regurgitate the last few lines it wrote. It's a tad problematic, since it works best with higher quality quills—the more magical the feather, the better. It may also get very messy."

"I'm good with cleaning spells," said Remus.

Tonks chuckled silently. "Oh, stop that, you'd make me want to marry you."

She set the quill above her slip of parchment, pointed her wand at it, and muttered the incantation. The quill plunged itself into her bottle of ink and danced across the parchment; Willoughby clearly had an elegant handwriting. Not a drop of ink was spilled outside of the parchment, and Tonks parked the quill back in its original stand once it was done.

They stared at the resultant paragraph on the table. The first line read:

_deussi eb llahs noitamrifnoc a hcihw fo noitelpmoc nopu dna_

"I forgot to mention: we have to read it in reverse," whispered Tonks.

"Let me," said Remus. He tapped the parchment with his wand: the letters shook and slid past each other. It was like watching a bed of black worms squiggling in place.

The parchment now read:

_I, Charles Oscar Willoughby, do hereby authorise and instruct Gringotts Bank, or its duly authorised representative and/or agent, to remove the amount equivalent to 5,000 Galleons only from Gringotts Vault Number 132, of which I am the sole and rightful owner of, and transfer the said amount of 5,000 Galleons only to Gringotts Vault Number 521, which is to the best of my knowledge owned in joint tenancy under the names of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Malfoy. This instruction is to take immediate effect and with utmost confidentiality, and upon completion of which a confirmation shall be issued._

"We used to do this with our messages in class when we had to sit apart," Remus told her later once they were back in the belly of Grimmauld Place.

"You guys had too much free time," laughed Tonks.

"That we did," said Remus, "but in the end it was never enough." He cleared his throat. "Well, this document just tells us that Willoughby most likely transferred 5,000 Galleons to Malfoy today." The corner of his lips twitched. "Maybe he lost a bet to Malfoy."

According to Snape, You-Know-Who had tasked Lucius Malfoy with raising funds for his war chest, specifically for his campaign of disinformation and distrust. Bill had separately confirmed that there had been an increase in activities in Malfoy's vault compared to those of previous years.

"It's a useful piece of the puzzle nevertheless," said Tonks, "definite incriminating evidence is hard to find even in my line of work."

"Voldemort shouldn't bother; the Ministry is doing all his work for him."

Sirius had just entered the basement. His face was grim; it made Tonks ask what had happened.

"Molly went to her son's place after dinner," said Sirius as he took a seat beside Remus, "brought him food and everything, worrying that the Ministry was overworking him and he'd forget to eat for himself. Slammed the door right at her face. She came back here a right mess. I thought it best to leave upstairs for a while to give her and Arthur some privacy." He turned to Remus." You taught him, didn't you? What was he like?"

"Hardworking, eager to please," recalled Remus, "Head Boy. Red hair. Averaged between 'E' and 'O' for DADA." Seeing Sirius's face he added: "I didn't know every student personally, Sirius. This may sound surprising, but a lot of students try to present their best sides to their teachers."

"I've seen him at work," offered Tonks. She thought of the draft report Dawlish handed to her. "I've always thought he was another one of the self-important arse-kissing tossers that form the most common species in the Ministry."

Sirius lifted his wand; three bottles of Butterbeer zoomed through the air and landed in front of each of them. Another flick of his wand, and the bottles uncorked themselves with a chorus of pops.

"Let's be extra nice to Molly for the coming days," he said. He swished his wand up and toward himself; his bottle zoomed into his waiting hand.

"Breaking news: Sirius Black takes mother's side against rebellious son's efforts to be his own person," said Remus softly but seriously.

Sirius elbowed him in the ribs; Remus groaned.

"You're a git," said Sirius matter-of-factly. "So, what happened tonight with you lot?"

Tonks spotted Molly staring blankly into space the next day after meeting. Her smiles seemed forced, and when Arthur steely recounted Fudge's latest efforts to discredit Dumbledore and Harry Potter, she brought a hand to her eyes. But Molly soon had a distraction in the form of Hermione Granger, who arrived at Grimmauld Place around a week after the Weasleys.

The day before her arrival, Ron came to dinner with shorter hair that was lopsided at the back. Fred and George offered to help him shave his head to even it out. Sirius later told Remus and Tonks that Ron had approached him after dinner for help with his hair rather than the indignity of asking his mother.

"Oh no," said Remus in exaggerated horror.

Sirius glared at him. "I find your lack of faith disturbing," he said in a low, flat voice.

"Didn't Ron ask why you'd keep your hair scruffy-looking like this—" Remus gestured at the long black curls that straddled Sirius's mid-back as Tonks giggled at their banter "—if not for the lack of confidence in your hairdressing skills?"

"I thought it was a stylistic choice," mused Tonks, "a fashion statement."

"You like it?" grinned Sirius, swiping the shiny black strands back only for them to drape his face like curtains. Tonks regretted that her mother did not pass the genes for the Black family hair to her; even with her powers she could never replicate that kind of follicular easy elegance.

She caught Remus, who was leaning his cheek on his hand beside Sirius, roll his eyes. Tonks laughed.

"A fashion statement is right," said Sirius with a tighter smile, "I'll cut it once I'm out of here."

Sirius did a pretty good job with Ron's hair, but as far as Tonks knew, Hermione did not once comment on it. She was a very busy girl: if she wasn't busy cleaning the house with the others, she would be in her and Ginny's room hidden behind piles of thick books stacked at the foot of her bed.

"It is our OWLs year," she said over the top of Spellman's Spell Library when Tonks reminded her that it was summer and she deserved a vacation, "with fifth year syllabus heavy enough as it is, this is the only time I have to properly revise what we've learned the previous four years. Do you think Professor Lupin would mind if I asked him a couple of things during dinner?"

She saw Ginny give Hermione a nervous glance from her bed, where she was brushing a purring Crookshank.

"No, he'd be glad to help you. But Hermione, OWLs aren't too bad," said Tonks, "once you take it, you'll find that you're more prepared for it than you realise."

"That's easy for you to say: you're an Auror, you probably just breezed through all our OWLs and NEWTs," groaned Hermione. She dropped her book, her eyes wide as saucers. "Oh God, NEWTs, how will we survive that!"

"Okay, let's just take it one standardised examination at a time," cooed Tonks.

"You'll be fine, Hermione," assured Ginny, "you're the top student in your year four years running!"

"And Remus told me you're the brightest witch of your age he's met—" (Tonks conveniently left out how Sirius had interjected with "Apart from us, of course", and to which Remus replied, "I was under the impression we weren't witches.") "—and let me tell you, I was the furthest thing from being a top student, since I don't think they gave marks for detentions."

Ginny laughed; Hermione let out a deep breath and gave them a weak smile. She went over to Ginny's bed to scratch behind Crookshank's ears, and then she sat back down on her own bed and picked up her book.

Ah, the perks of seniority. Wasn't it great to be able to put up a confident display of nonchalance about exams she once worried her own head off? A tinge of guilt set in: they didn't know that until this very second she still had no idea how in Merlin's single hairy ball did she manage to be standing with an Auror badge under her robe right now. 

There was a tapping on the window. A snow white owl was peering expectantly at them. Crookshank gave a little growl, his yellow eyes trained at the owl.

"Oh no," muttered Hermione. She opened the window and untied the two scrolls attached to the owl's leg. "Go back to him first, please, Hedwig, it'd be some time before we can reply—owch!"

The owl pecked her finger, and with what sounded like a judgmental hoot, flew off into the night. Hermione closed the window and went out of the room.

"That's Harry's owl, Hedwig," said Ginny.

Tonks's first thought was of how livid Mad-Eye would be at the idea of a bright white owl flying in and out of a neighbourhood in London not well-known for teeming with owls.

"Poor Harry," continued Ginny, "he's trapped with those awful relatives of his for summer and he's rightly frustrated at how little Ron and Hermione could tell him. Why can't Harry come stay with us here? He's stayed over at the Burrow for previous summers."

"I'm sorry, Ginny, I don't know too," said Tonks, "your mother and Sirius had asked Dumbledore before, but he said that Harry should stay with his uncle and aunt as much as possible for his own protection."

"How can he be safer in Surrey with a bunch of Muggles than in the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix?" said Ginny, eyebrow raised.

A loud, spine-chilling wail reverberated from the inside of the wall. Crookshank hissed and leapt under Hermione's bed.

Ginny sighed. "Well, that undercut my point a little, but it still stands."

Tonks bit her lips. "I don't know," she said lamely again. Ginny's eyes narrowed—her sharp gaze could certainly pierce through Tonks’s lie. Funny: she was trained to survive interrogation and coercion, but here she was floundering under the stare of a fourteen year old.

Another wail passed by their walls. The floorboards in front of Ginny's room creaked; Molly's voice floated in: "I've asked Alastor to look for the ghoul, but he can't find it too. I'm starting to wonder if it's Kreacher making all that noise."

Ginny eventually let up her ocular offense. She clapped and patted the bed until Crookshanks cautiously climbed up to her lap.

"Hey, Tonks," said Ginny as Crookshank's tail twitched in rhythm with her strokes, "do you have ideas for dates that don't involve much—or any—money?"

"Plenty!" grinned Tonks, "but we must first assess what are your and Michael's respective ideas of fun and risk tolerance levels."

 

* * *

 

Tonks had been staring at her field notebook for the length of time it took her coffee to go cold, and she still couldn't decipher her own handwriting. Why was there no spell for this? She could not be the only person with this too-regular problem.

Savage walked past her cubicle and leaned over Proudfoot's. "Guess who I saw in the corridors just now?" He didn't wait for a reply. "Albus Dumbledore himself! He went straight to Improper Use of Magic—blimey, wonder if a Hogwarts student got into trouble for underage magic?"

Tonks felt something cold churned in her stomach, and it wasn't her coffee.

"Damn it, this quill really drinks ink," she said too loudly. She got up and casually made her way down the next row of cubicles. On Kingsley's desk a roll of ribbons went around several bundles of parchment, a pair of scissors waiting patiently at its side. But there was no Kingsley.

She walked back to her cubicle and met Kingsley at the end of her row.

"Hello, Tonks," said Kingsley in his deep, calm voice, "I was wondering if you could lend me a bottle of ink?"

"Yeah, of course," said Tonks quickly.

He passed her a small slip of parchment when she gave him her only bottle of ink. He nodded at her, and then said aloud: "Thanks, Tonks. I'll return it soon."

Tonks bent over her notebook again. She watched from the corner of her eye Kingsley's tall figure went out of the Headquarters and disappeared after turning left, to the direction of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. She unfolded the parchment inside her notebook. Inside was a small paragraph written neatly in Kingsley's block handwriting:

_H attacked by Dementors. Conjured Patronus. D persuading Ministry not to expel & destroy his wand. Meeting at 2100._

She set the parchment on fire under her desk and cleared the ashes. Things burst into flames often enough in the Aurors' Headquarters that their smoke alarms were permanently deactivated.

Her half-finished report and indecipherable notebook page lay waiting for her. She sighed. Who would be able to do that now?

The basement of Grimmauld Place was already full when Tonks arrived. Arthur was recounting the events of the day to Hestia Jones. He had to repeat himself when Emmeline Vance and Sturgis Podmore approached him. Molly was patrolling the staircase leading to the basement.

"I think I've got them all," Tonks heard her mutter as she entered, "but you can never be sure."

She pointed her wand at the door and cast an Impertupable Charm on it.

A very pale and still Mundungus Fletcher was seated next to Moody, whose magical eye was fixed on the former. Across Mundungus was a snarling Sirius: he looked like he was barely holding himself back from lunging at Mundungus and bite off his throat.

"Alright, Tonks," grunted Moody as she took a seat beside Sirius.

"Hullo, Mad-Eye." She turned to Sirius. "Where's Remus?"

"Guard duty at the Ministry," replied Sirius curtly without taking his eyes off Mundungus. His long black mane seemed to be bristling.

Dumbledore was his usual portrait of unperturbed calm, which was amazing given how (if Dedalus Diggle's excited recounting was to be believed) he had just hours ago reduced Mundungus to his current state. Tonks could not imagine the extent of her kindly Headmaster's wrath—but she thought she could feel it radiate still, like the invisible edges of blue hot flame.

"We have to move Harry here, to Headquarters," said Dumbledore. "Whoever sent the Dementors to attack him could try again."

She felt Sirius quiver beside her. He was no longer looking at Mundungus—his gaze was fixed at Dumbledore.

"Was it You-Know-Who?" whispered Hestia Jones.

"Severus said that as far as he knows, there was no sign of Voldemort planning or executing this attack. But we cannot rule out his or his supporters' involvement."

"Isn't Harry Potter safe under the protection charm as long as he is in his Muggle relatives' home?" wheezed Elphias Doge.

"Yes, against Voldemort and those carrying out his plan," said Dumbledore, "but the attacker does not necessarily mean to kill Harry then and there. They may intend for Harry to be expelled, to have his wand broken, or to be thrown out of his relatives' home, thus robbing him of his means of defence or protection. They may intend to entice Harry out of the house, for as you can appreciate, the protection only works in its proximity; as today's events have proved, he is not always keen to stay inside the house."

"I can't imagine why," muttered Sirius. Then he raised his voice: "Is Harry coming tonight?"

"No," growled Moody, "not right away. The attacker and the Ministry will be watching him closely." He looked around the table with his normal eye. "We will need two groups. The advance guard to get the boy, and a rear guard watching their, well, rear, and ready to replace the advance guard as they get picked off."

"'M not g'nna be the advance guard," grunted Mundungus.

"No one's asking you, Fletcher," barked Moody, "there's no place for spineless wank-stain in the advance guard. Only the bravest witch and wizard ready to die for a fifteen year old in a Muggle suburb need apply."

Tonks raised her hands—and so did almost everyone else, including Sirius.

"I'm volunteering on Remus's behalf," he said as the faces around the table turned to give him quizzical looks.

"Yeah, Lupin should come," said Moody, "he knows Potter—he'd make sure the one we're taking is the genuine item."

"I can go as well," called out Molly, "I know Harry too."

"No, I'll go," said Arthur, "Molly, you have to stay here—the kids—"

"We can't have the whole damn Order traipse through the Muggles' place; might as well as just Permanently Stick target signs on our arses," growled Moody. "We need people to form the rear guard, as well as to stay here and man the fort."

"Oh, I'll be here, Alastor," said Sirius through pursed lips.

Dumbledore seemed amused and heartened as the table erupted in a crescendo of "I'll go"s. Tonks caught Moody's normal eye; she pointed at herself and mouthed furiously: " _Pick me, oi, Mad-Eye, pick me!_ " There was no bloody way she was going to miss this: here was a proper exciting mission, coupled with an opportunity to finally meet _the_ Harry Potter.

"Right, we're drawing lots," roared Moody. He drained his goblet, and tapped it with his wand: small rolls of parchment filled it to the brim. "I'm going, so there are four parchments with red dots on them here—"

"Five guards are way too few, Alastor!"

Moody tapped the goblet again. "Fine, six—"

"Seven is a good magical number."

"Fine. FINE." The goblet emptied and refilled with the small rolls of parchment again.

"If we want to fetch Potter without tipping anyone else off, we will have to do it by broom," said Kingsley.

"That's right," added Tonks immediately, "you will need eight to form a defensive flying formation around him—four fixed positions in the three dimensional axis, and four circling around the principal."

Both of Moody's eyes swivelled to her. He had told her this same exact thing years ago after he read the standard defensive flying formation in her textbook and deemed it rubbish. She grinned at him. He ran a hand down his face and tapped the goblet again.

The goblet was passed around the table. She unrolled the slip of parchment in her hand and there it was: a red dot.

"Right, so now that we have eight of us in the advance guard," said Moody, "we can move on to the rear guard."

"Hang on," interjected Sirius, "you forgot Remus. You agreed just now that he should go too, Alastor."

Moody sighed. "Fine," he grunted, "fine, we're nine."

Four days later, the nine of them stood in the well-manicured lawn of Four Privet Drive, broom in hand. Moody had Apparated there first as scout and to cast the necessary protective spells around the house. The rest of them waited at Grimmauld Place for the silver grizzly to give them the go-ahead.

Moody turned to Tonks. "How long have we got?"

"With this traffic to Kent and back? More than an hour and a half to spare."

"We have around twenty five more minutes before the first signal," added Kingsley.

"Good. Right, we're going in. Take this seriously, you lot," reminded Moody at the doorstep. His normal eye lingered at Tonks. "Wands out. Constant vigilance."

He confirmed that the house was not filled to the rafters with Death Eaters before Kingsley unlocked the door and they entered the dark house in a single file. Remus brought up the rear.

"Excited?" she whispered to him.

She made out the outline of his smile traced by the streetlight behind them before the door closed.

"I just hope he remembers me," said Remus.


	5. Up All Night

"Remus John Lupin, I swear to God if you don't bloody stop avoiding me I will put a full body-bind curse on you!"

Remus knew Lily too well not to take her threats seriously. He sighed. He turned around, hands raised, and bore the full blaze of the angry green eyes.

"You can't hide anything from me," said Lily. With the sun behind her, the wind whipping her hair into a dancing flame, and her hands square on her hips, she cut an imposing figure. The Head Girl badge gleamed on her chest. "You're upset."

"No," replied Remus with no conviction whatsoever.

"You're upset because Dumbledore made James Potter Head Boy when he was never a Prefect," continued Lily, "you think you must have let Dumbledore down so much as a Prefect that he would rather pick your notorious troublemaker friend who was the antithesis of a Prefect to be Head Boy instead. Sit."

She pointed at the base of the magnificent beech tree with its thick lush branches which were only starting to yellow by the Great Lake.

"Sit."

He sighed again and dropped to the grass. Lily followed him down.

"You wear your guilt on your sleeve, Remus," she said gently, "and all of that guilt is unwarranted. Let's think this through, Mr Straight 'O's in OWLs."

"And an 'A' in Potions," pointed out Remus.

"Fine. I'm going to walk this through with you, Mr Straight' O's in OWLs and an 'A' in Potions who anyway got an 'E' from Slughorn last term," said Lily.

Remus looked past her. A male hen harrier was soaring above the edge of the Forbidden Forest. The wind carried its call for mates across the school grounds.

"There are at least 22 Prefects at one time," said Lily, "and only one pair of Head Boy and Head Girl. They are in charge of not just these 22 Prefects, but the entire student body. In addition, they must be available 24/7 upon the staff's command."

"I know," said Remus hoarsely. His eyes were watering from following the path of the hen harrier against the setting sun.

"Dumbledore doesn't want to burden you with that kind of responsibility—no, not because he thinks you are incapable of performing it, or because he thinks you are undeserving of it. He knows you simply just don't have the time—" she looked around and lowered her voice "—not every _month_. And I think Dumbledore knows you, Mr I Can Never Say No, well enough that you'll beat yourself up over circumstances beyond your control, and run yourself to the ground trying to go the extra mile to satisfy your duties."

"You're giving me far too much credit, Lily," said Remus, smiling in spite of himself, "I can't even keep my own mates in line."

"Well, no one is perfect," grinned Lily. "But apart from those three terrible influences, you are otherwise an exemplary Prefect. You voluntarily cover night patrol duties for other Prefects even during exam times; you go out of your way to help lost first years."

Remus shrugged, now intent on studying an ant climbing a blade of grass near his thigh.

"On the other hand," said Lily, "I think McGonagall and Dumbledore might want to teach Potter a lesson in responsibility and force him to grow up. And it'd be worth trying to distract him with Head Boy duties so he won't have time to cause too much trouble anymore."

Remus looked up at her. He broke into laughter, and she joined him after a beat.

"Urgh, that said, I am so not looking forward to work together with that toe rag," groaned Lily.

"You're the best person to make a Head Boy out of him," said Remus, "I think that's part of McGonagall's and Dumbledore's calculation as well."

Lily rolled her eyes and scoffed. She turned to the direction of the castle. "Oh great, speak of the devil..."

The familiar figures of James, Sirius, and Peter were ambling towards them. Lily stood up, brushed the back of her robes, and patted Remus on the shoulder before walking off in the opposite direction of the approaching figures.

"Evans!" called James.

"Don't forget we're meeting the Headmaster at eight tonight, Potter," said Lily without looking back.

"What'd you two talk about?" asked Sirius as the three sat down beside Remus.

"Oh you know," said Remus nonchalantly, "Prefect and Head Girl stuff."

"Boring," grunted James immediately. He paused. "Wait a sec." He looked down on his chest, and then at Remus. "I'm Head Boy."

"Yes," said Remus, "yes you are, James."

Lily was right, as she always was. The staff relished commanding James around, and the Prefects who just a year ago would have been running after him seemed to always need his guidance for every little thing. Within the end of the term he had been run haggard.

Everyone thought it was hilarious—that is, everyone but Sirius. He did not hide his discontent about seeing so much less of his best friend. He joked that the only time he could see James these days was in detention—with James administering it. Remus only realised it was actually a threat when Sirius started making good on it. Unlike Remus, James had no qualms about putting Sirius in detention, especially after he replaced the crystal balls in the Divination Classroom with exploding snow globes containing Dungbombs.

Within the next term, everyone's laughter had changed to awe: James Potter was growing into his role—no, James Potter was turning out to be a pretty decent Head Boy. Only one person was more amazed than Remus at this development.

"Remus," said Lily one day after Arithmancy class. "Tell me the truth."

"Sirius did it," he said without looking up from his bag.

She snatched his textbook from his table before he could put it in his bag.

"What did you do with the real James Potter?" demanded Lily.

Remus raised an eyebrow. "I froze his toes this morning to wake him up in time for morning duty, but only because he asked me to last night."

"No," hissed Lily, "what's wrong with him? Why is he so... different practically overnight? Did he get Confounded? Is it the Imperius Curse? Oh my God, did you guys swap him with a real stag you Transfigured to take his form?"

Remus burst into laughter so quickly and violently he choked.

"A real stag..." sputtered Remus. "Lily, Dumbledore made him Head Boy. Is it so hard to believe that James has always been capable of being a responsible, charismatic trustworthy leader?"

"Yes," said Lily stubbornly.

"People can change for the better, Lily," said Remus, "yeah, maybe he could be a little bit—"

It was Lily's turn to raise an eyebrow.

"—er, well, quite a bit of—plainly speaking—a cock the past six years," continued Remus. He shrugged and added: "All four of us have been real shitheads."

"No, he's different," insisted Lily, "he's just so—"

She banged his textbook against the table and jumped herself from the sheer violence of it.

"Sorry," muttered Lily. She handed the book to him and took a step back. She cleared her throat, straightened her tie, nodded at Remus, and walked out of the classroom.

Twenty years later, the son of that pair of Head Boy and Head Girl was upset for not having been made Prefect.

"Can you think of why Dumbledore didn't make Potter a Prefect?" said Kingsley.

"He'll have had his reasons," replied Remus.

 

* * *

 

Her hair was long and red tonight.

"For a second there I thought there was an unaccounted Weasley," said Sirius to her by way of greeting. She laughed as she waved back to Ginny and Hermione.

The last time he saw her, she was blond and pumping herself full of Molly's strongest, blackest coffee before stumbling out of Grimmauld Place for work. She managed a grin at him before the door closed.

They had been up all night.

Late summer nights were decidedly the best time during which to spend nights in the bushes surrounding Malfoy Manor. There were less insects; the air was cooler; the grass was still dry; and against the cloudless sky they could watch ancient endless sagas played out by the constellations, if not for the bright disc that was a barely waning gibbous moon.

Crickets called from the woods beyond. A barn owl screeched in the distance. He felt Tonks's warmth beside him more than he could hear steady breathing. Sometimes she shifted in her seat; the tips of his finger would tingle.

And then a heavy clank. The leaves rustled beside him: a Disillusioned Tonks was peering through the dense vegetation.

"The gate's opening," she whispered.

Iron locks cried as they slid and turned. Ancient hinges yawned. A startled squirrel scurried up the pitted trunk of a nearby aspen tree.

"He's coming out," said Tonks, "oh, and here's my dear Aunt!"

"I wish you wouldn't make me spend an entire evening with those trolls," said a feminine voice that could only belong to Narcissa Malfoy.

"They are my friends, Cissy," said Malfoy's voice.

"They are not."

A chuckle. "And that is the more reason why we must show them generousity from time to time."

Remus's height allowed him to see past the bushes just by climbing onto his knees. Malfoy was lifting his elbow up and out to Narcissa. Remus swung his wand as if casting a line towards Malfoy's direction. He only briefly saw Narcissa take Malfoy's arm before the familiar sensation of being sucked into a needle point hit.

The biggest risk of an Extended Side-Along Apparition was obvious: you don't know where you're going. For all Remus knew, Malfoy had just deposited him in a nest of Death Eaters. But the presence of Narcissa Malfoy, and the elegant dress robes they both wore, allowed Remus to make a comfortable punt that this would not be a one-way trip.

(Extended Side-Along Apparition was only what Dumbledore called it—it had different names in different parts of South East Asia, where the locals had been practicing it for centuries in order to hunt teleporting imps. Tonks called it Stalker Apparition. Sirius called it Theoretical Apparition Method Until I can Get the Fuck Out of Here and Try it for Myself.)

He was spat into a brightly lit lobby. He quickly looked down: there was only polished marble tiles where his feet should be—the Disillusionment Charm was still holding.

A man squeezed into a waistcoat and tie was approaching the Malfoys. His shiny pate that was barely covered with thin strands of slick black hair gleamed in the bright lobby lights.

"Your guests are already seated, Sir," he said, bowing. "If I may show Sir and Madam your table."

Remus’s shoes squeaked against the floor as he took a step. He froze.

Malfoy stopped. A carving trolley passed between them.

"Sir," said the Maitre'd.

"Come on, Lucius," said Narcissa Malfoy, "or that awful woman would order and drain the most expensive champagne in the list on our account."

Malfoy's own gleaming black shoes screeched as he turned back.

Remus breathed again.

A block away was safe for him to Apparate. Tonks gasped as he popped back into the air beside her—the sound was only muffled for those outside their protective circle.

"It's me," he whispered.

She felt the air around him until she could grab a fistful of his sleeve. Her breath fell hot on his face.

"What musical instrument did Remus Lupin play as a child?"

Oh, of all the questions. “The recorder.” He learned it in the Muggle school his mother enrolled him in until he was bitten. He had not touched any musical instrument since.

Her grip relaxed. "Where did they go?"

"A restaurant at West End." He grabbed the hand that was still holding on to him. "Shall we?"

The restaurant was, to Muggle eyes, an uninviting steel door in a back alley filled with dumpsters, between which Remus and Tonks were hiding, still Disillusioned. A couple approached the door. The man produced his wand and tapped it.

"Table for two, no reservations," said the man.

The door slid open and the couple went in.

"We celebrated my Dad's birthday here last year," whispered Tonks, "we had a reservation though, so we Apparated inside. The food's overpriced rubbish."

"The Malfoys are meeting some people inside," said Remus, "we should find out who they are."

"I can get in," said Tonks. "We'll just have to wait for a service staff to come out, and I can do the ol' switcheroo—"

They fell silent. A group had just entered the alley. The leader tapped the door with his wand.

"Five please," said the man, "no reservation, sorry, but we just decided to celebrate our friend's birthday."

The door slid open, and in the second the bright lights from the lobby bathed them Remus could make out their figures. They all looked above middle-aged. One woman was wearing an eyepatch. A man's metal claws gleamed under his robe. Last to enter was a limping man with a grey ponytail.

"Oh my God," gasped Tonks, "Remus, those are my bosses!"

"What?"

"Scrimgeour. Rix. Hoffmann. MacKenzie. Sinclair. They're all senior Aurors—all office holders. You know Scrimgeour, he's Head of Aurors. His Deputy's Sinclair, the lady with the eyepatch."

"So the most powerful and influential Aurors just walked into the same restaurant Malfoy is at," muttered Remus.

Even though they were still invisible, he could feel Tonks's eyes on him. The Order had surmised that one of Voldemort's first priorities would be to infiltrate the Aurors, on account of how much damage they did to his followers and his cause in the previous war.

"I'll go in right now," said Tonks, "as a guest, no time to wait for a service staff—"

"You're not going in there alone," cut Remus.

"It's still a public place," shot Tonks, "I don't think Malfoy would make his move against five highly experienced Aurors right now."

"You'd look suspicious dining alone," said Remus simply.

Tonks sighed. "Fine. But how do you plan on going in?" She let out a muffled groan. "See, other Aurors would always have a flask of Polyjuice potion with them in a stake-out, but I'd never bothered—God, the lecture Mad-Eye would give me if he finds out..."

"I've got my wand," said Remus, "it's good enough for this foremost public werewolf figure to disguise himself when infiltrating werewolf gangs. We should look for a better changing spot—"

"—oh come on already." She grabbed his outstretched hand and led him out of the alley. Keeping close to the walls, they entered a Muggle cafe and slipped into the disabled washroom. Remus felt her wand on the crown of his head—the Disillusionment Charm was lifted.

Tonks was already not Tonks as she shimmered into view. Her hair sprouted like spaghetti and turned a mahogany brown. Her eyes crept away from each other, the iris blooming into a light green; her lips filled up; her nose retracted.

"They might recognise my voice so—" She coughed. When she spoke again, it was in a higher pitched singsong: "There, this should be fine. Over to you, partner."

Transfiguring hair colour was the easiest. He pointed his wand at his scalp; a cold and wet gel-like sensation enveloped his head. He checked his reflection in the mirror—his reflection already looked like a stranger with the jet black hair.

"It'd be a convenient way to hide all the grey if not for the disgusting sensation," grimaced Remus.

"I think the grey is very distinguishing," said Tonks, "it's a good look for you."

Remus quickly went to the next step: he brought his wand to his chin, and hair shot up, rapidly covering the bottom half of his face with scraggly beard. He would be spending some time later over the sink in Grimmauld Place shaving it off. He finished it off with the same spell he used to blacken his hair.

The nose was always painful: it felt like someone had punched and broken it.

"A bit reminiscent of Dumbledore," commented Tonks with a grin.

"Thanks," said Remus in a nasal voice as he blinked away tears, "I guess."

And now the cherry on top: he waved his wand, and a pair of thick square glasses fell out of thin air.

"If it's good enough for Clark Kent," muttered Remus as he put it on.

Tonks’s mouth gaped open. "I understood that reference," she said, "but I did not expect it."

"Peter—Wormtail—liked those Muggle superhero comics," said Remus, "his parents would send new ones to school every month. We'd spend an evening in our dorm reading them all. Lily was surprised we knew what a Superman was when she took us to watch the film.”

He looked in the mirror again. There were two strangers standing in his and Tonks’s place: a beautiful young woman and a scruffy furtive-looking man. He rubbed the wilderness that was his cheek. His scars were obscured by the glasses and the beard.

“And one last thing,” said Tonks. She slid her wand up in front of her: bits and pieces of her cerulean blue robe flipped and turned into an elegant navy dress robe. “If you’ll let me—”

No amount of Transfiguration could make luxurious robes out of rags, so Remus nodded without much confidence she could salvage his robes. She waved her wand across his body—the robe turned black; the fit tightened. In the mirror, his eyes widened behind his glasses: the scruffy furtive-looking man now looked halfway smart.

“Now we’re ready,” declared Tonks.

They went out of the washroom, past the scandalised glares from the staff. When they reached the steel door again Tonks tapped it with her wand.

“Evening, table for two please,” she said cheerfully, “no reservation, I’m afraid. This guy here—” she nudged at Remus “—just remembered it’s our anniversary. Help us out, would ya?”

The door slid open.

“Cheers,” purred Tonks as Remus found himself in the lobby once more. The Maitre’d was already waiting for them in front of his stand.

“Sir and Madam are lucky, presently we have just one table available,” he said, “if I may show you to it.”

The lobby opened up to a cavernous hall lit up with a massive floating chandelier of tiered crystal candles; smaller bunches of the crystal candles floated all around, and Remus saw a waiter balancing a whole turkey barely dodges one. Spiraling staircases of solid wooden steps snaked down the hall; tables clothed in pure white populated each landing. Windows stretched the height of the hall, portraying a serene cloudless night in the mountains. Their table was one landing down; the Maitre'd swiftly pulled out Tonks's chair for her, and once she sat down, he whipped his wand so that a pure white square napkin fell on her lap. Remus was glad the beard and the glasses hid his face; he was sure his awkwardness would be otherwise plain to see.

The menu was a small card that appeared in front of him on his plate as he sat down. It took him longer than he would admit to decipher the series of numbers beside each item:

 

**A Cauldron Cake Full of Love            15 2 1**

_Chocolate lava cauldron cake with frozen scoop of premium vanilla ice cream in its core_

 

"15 Galleons, 2 Sickles and 1 Knut," mumbled Remus. If they'd wanted to save ink why not cut down on the ridiculous description of each item instead of on the price indication? Then again, this whole place was ridiculous—15 Galleons for a chocolate cake?

Tonks cleared her throat. She was scratching her nose, her index finger pointed down.

Lucius Malfoy's table took up almost the entire landing below them. Remus quickly recognised the two hulking figures seated on the same table: Crabbe and Goyle. The two women seated in between them must be their wives. Malfoy was looking over his shoulder further down; Remus followed his gaze down.

A gigantic harp stood at the center of the lowest floor. There was a table of five beside it—Remus could not see the occupants from his line of sight, but he had a pretty astute guess as to who they were.

"Are you ready to order, Sir, Madam?" said a voice with clipped accent. A waiter with otherwise young face but old moustache was standing at attention beside their table, a notepad and quill floating in the air beside him.

"We're gonna need a bit more time," said Tonks.

The waiter bowed and left.

"The big blokes with Malfoy are Crabbe and Goyle," whispered Remus, "fellow Death Eaters."

"Yeah, Dumbledore said Harry saw them in the graveyard during You-Know-Who's return," said Tonks. She careened forward and stretched her neck, trying to peer over his shoulder at the table of Aurors below. "I don't think they'd be able to throw so much as a wishbone down at my bosses without being blasted, much less an Imperius curse."

Remus cupped his chin in his palm. "Don't make it look so obvious," he mouthed.

Tonks pulled back slightly so that she was looking straight at him. She raised an eyebrow. "Are _you_  telling _me_  how to spy?"

He smiled. "I wouldn't dare to."

She sat back down. "If you are going to give me a masterclass in espionage, Professor," whispered Tonks, "tell me, what are we doing right now?"

"Working," said Remus.

"No, no." She gestured at her face, and then his. "What's our cover story?"

Remus chuckled. "You told the guy at the door it was our anniversary, which I've forgotten," he offered, "So we are... married?"

"No ring," said Tonks immediately, tapping her fingers on the table.

"Ah," said Remus, "dating."

Tonks grinned. "We could be having an affair."

"That'd make sense," nodded Remus, "I'm the lonely businessman facing middle aged crisis with a cold wife at home getting off with the impressionable secretary who worships him and is far too young and too beautiful for him."

"Look at you, Mr Dramatic."

"You don't be friends with Sirius for this long and not pick up some of his flair for drama." He saw the waiter approaching them from the corner of his eye. "Incoming."

"Grab my hand, lover," whispered Tonks.

He obeyed: he placed his hand over her much smaller one. They had grabbed each other's hands several times in the course of missions—this was her hand, she hadn't morphed it.  
  
"Are we ready to order?" inquired the waiter.

Tonks grabbed the menu with her free hand. "Shall we start with some drinks?" she asked Remus, who shrugged. "Nothing alcoholic, we're both in recovery."

The waiter nodded. "I understand. I can recommend our signature mocktail—"

"How about some tea?" chirped Tonks, "You like tea, don't you, darling?"

"Black, please," replied Remus.

"Yes, so two cups of tea—we'll have that first."

The waiter's eyebrow raise slightly. "Certainly," he said.

Remus glanced at the menu again, wherein the tea was the cheapest item and yet still cost more than a week's worth of meal for him.

After the waiter left, Remus became painfully aware that he was still holding on to Tonks's hand. What if his hand was heavy—or was it clammy? Would it stifle her hand too much? Did she like it, the feeling of his hand over hers? He scanned her face for clues of her displeasure or discomfort—ah, her lips twitched, she was clenching her teeth. She leaned forward—this must be it—

"If I'd known I'd be going on a date today, I'd have put on some make-up," she said.

He had noticed, of course, that she would be barefaced in missions. Only in meetings would she be wearing a dab of make-up, her ears adorned with studs and chains. She had once told him and Sirius that it was much easier to hide the Muggle tattoo she had if she needed to: she only had to disperse the ink pigments as moles and birth marks and smooth over the scars.

"You don't have to," said Remus quickly.

"Yeah, I guess this face is pretty as it is," said Tonks, rubbing her cheeks with her free hand.

"There's nothing wrong with your normal face."

The words spilled out of his mouth before his brain could think them through. He froze. He should be studying her face for clues of distaste or alarm, but his eyes refused to budge from the menu on his plate.

"Thanks," said Tonks, "nothing wrong with your normal face too."

He looked up at her. She was still grinning.

"Thanks."

She bit her lower lip. "Quite like it, actually."

"What, with the grey and the lines and the scars?" snorted Remus.

"Yeah," said Tonks, "with the grey and the lines and the scars."

He finally took his hand off her so that he could rub his face under his glasses. He didn't know what was hotter—his hand, or his face.

The waiter arrived with their cups of tea and a jug of cream.

"Sugar is in the jar on the table," said the waiter. "Have Sir and Madam decided on your meals? Perhaps an Appetiser first? If I may recommend—"

"We'll call for you when we feel like food, mate," stated Tonks, already pouring a dash of cream into her tea.

The waiter bowed stiffly and departed.

"So did you do this with Alastor?" said Remus, barely concealing his amusement at the image that just popped up in his head, "playing a couple while tailing a mark?"

Tonks chortled. "Totally," she replied once she collected herself, "and you can imagine, he was the best Auror of all time: the man could act! He taught me an excellent move to throw off suspicion if the mark thought they'd spotted you."

"A well-aimed Confounding Charm?"

Tonks leaned forward again, her elbows on the table. Her face was so close to his; he could breathe her in.

"Snogging," she whispered, "people naturally avert their eyes from public display of affection."

Her lips were fuller than usual, but it was the same shade of bitten pink she always had in their missions.

"And as you can imagine," continued Tonks, "Mad-Eye's a very _practical_ teacher."

"Yeah? I'll ask him about it," whispered Remus back.

"Oh no, no, don't!" laughed Tonks as she plopped back down on her seat, almost knocking over her cup if Remus hadn't reached out to steady it. "I was joshing!"

"He is the best Auror of all time," continued Remus, "I'd like to learn more from him about effective espionage tactics."

"You're joking... aren't you?" said Tonks. Her laughter was more hesitant.

"I'm a lifelong student," said Remus solemnly.

"Sirius was right," muttered Tonks. "You're the most awful one—nevermind that good boy veneer..."

The waiter was by their side again.

"Perhaps Sir and Madam wish to know the Chef's Specials for tonight," he began.

"No, we do not," interjected Tonks cheerfully. "We'll finish our tea first and we'll see if we're still hungry afterwards."

Behind them, Malfoy was talking to a waiter who was clearing his table.

"Looks like they're calling it a night," said Tonks. She stretched her neck to look at the Aurors. "They're just about to finish their main course too."

The same waiter returned from the kitchen with a big dark bottle. She presented it to Malfoy, who nodded at it. And then she descended to the bottom floor, to the Aurors' table.

"It couldn't be poisoned, could it?" said Tonks, "not in public, certainly?"

"Are they as vigilant as Alastor when it comes to sniffing out poison in everything they consume?"

Tonks stood up. "We'll take turns to go to the washroom downstairs," she said, "I'll go first."

Remus watched her casually circle around the Aurors' table: she studied the harp intently; she was amused by each and every floating crystal candle in the proximity of the table; she wandered around as if lost, until a waiter personally directed her to the washroom, which turned out to be directly in front of the staircase. Meanwhile, the Aurors continued drinking. Malfoy's bottle was opened, glasses were filled up.

Tonks returned; she dragged her chair back and one of its legs caught one of the table's, which shook violently. The remaining of Remus's tea spilled out onto the pure white table cloth.

"Sorry! Sorry!"

"It's alright," said Remus. He tapped the tea stain with his wand: it faded into the pure whiteness. "What's happening?"

"Malfoy sent over some very exquisite port," she said, "also it's Rix's birthday: I did not know that. Scrimgeour isn't drinking, so if the rest of them was poisoned at least he would have an inkling who did it."

One of the Aurors with curly blonde hair raised his arm to Malfoy, who replied in kind. The witch with the eye patch raised her glass at him.

The waiter returned and Remus turned away from Malfoy's table.

"Desserts, perhaps?"

"We're watching our sugar intake. Let's have the cheque, shall we, babe?" grinned Tonks to Remus.

The waiter gave the tiniest of sighs that Remus would not have caught had it not been full moon the night before.

"Very well."

The waiter flicked his wand, and a roll of parchment tied with a dainty golden thread appeared on Remus's empty plate. Tonks cleared her throat. Without taking her eyes off the waiter, she raised her own wand and the roll zoomed into her free hand. The waiter made a nervous bow and left.

"I'm so tempted to skip the tip," grumbled Tonks. She rummaged in her pocket and little by little deposited an offering of coins on the table. The parchment lay open beside her; Remus picked it up.

"Tonks, I can't let you pay for this." He was furious at his throat for betraying him with his hoarse voice.

"Oh, don't you give me that chivalrous nonsense," shot Tonks. She snatched the parchment from his hand. "It's fine, Remus."

"We should at least split it." Even if, acknowledged a bitter little voice inside him, he would have to borrow money from her to cover his share.

Tonks tutted and raised a finger. She looked down at the coins she had placed on top of the parchment, eyebrows furrowed as if she was trying to morph. "Okay," she announced to the parchment, "keep the change. Cheers."

The parchment rolled up around the coins and disappeared with a crack. Two dinner mints now sat at where the parchment used to be. Tonks grabbed one and popped the content into her mouth. Her eyes widened; she pointed her thumb behind him.

"Malfoy's going down," she whispered. "A nip to the loo before we go, sweetie?"

Tonks stood up first and offered her hand to him. He remembered what she said about public display of affection in espionage. But as her hand clenched around his he realised he had no _fucking_  idea how to this. How much should he squeeze back? How closely should he be walking beside her? How does one walk when one's hand is holding another? How does one walk, period?

He balled up all his anxieties into his free hand and shoved it into his pocket. He was thirty-five years old, he was a member of the Order, and by Merlin's freckled arse he was going to walk properly; he was going to walk properly holding hands with the impressionable secretary who worshiped him and was far too young and too beautiful for him; he was going to publicly display his affection for her.

They passed by the Aurors' table. Malfoy was standing between Scrimgeour and the witch with the eyepatch, his hand around Narcissa's waist. The Crabbes and Goyles stood behind them like impenetrable walls.

"Look, sweetie," cooed Tonks. She pulled him closer and they came to a stop in front of the harp, their backs to the table. "Isn't it pretty?"

He watched the strings of the harp twitched and twanged over her head; she fit perfectly in the nook between his shoulder and his chest. He realised that she hadn't morphed her height.

"Another high point about investing in wine futures," said Malfoy, "is that there is always plenty to spare for important guests. In fact, I have a few barrels of goblin-brewed barley wine which just matured—we recently did a sample tasting, and it turned out very well. Much better, I dare say, than the port you graciously accepted just now. If you gentlemen—and lady—would do my wife and I the honours of joining us in our humble abode for a night cap—"

"Thank you, Lucius." From the corner of his eyes he could just about make out Tonks mouthing _Scrimgeour_. "But it is getting late, and we have work tomorrow."

"Oh come now, Rufus," said an Auror in a slurred voice, "let your hair down once in a while."

"What is the point of making Head of Auror," said another, "if you don't abuse rank privilege of coming late to work from time to time."

"I say, Rufus," said a female voice, "you should come with, if only to help me keep an eye on these three. The Aurors' good name might be in jeopardy."

The table burst into a chorus of laughter.

Tonks, meanwhile, was steering them to the other side of the table. She had pulled his arm across her back until his hand settled on the other side of her waist. "You know, sweetie," she was saying, "I think a lot about the day I first saw you..."

"You know me, Bill," said Malfoy, "Discretion is my middle name."

"Just stay for a bit, Rufus," said the Auror with golden curls in a heavy slurred voice, "for old times' sake, eh?"

"Give the poor sod a break," said an Auror with arms as big as elephant legs, "he's lost his wife on his birthday, don't you abandon him too, Rufus."

Scrimgeour sighed and raised his arms.

"Excellent," said Malfoy. "Shall we go?"

"After we finish your excellent port, Lucius," said the blond Auror, lifting up his glass. "And my dessert is still yet to come."

"His second desert of the night," said an Auror through his thick moustache. He rubbed his metal claw against his chin in what seemed like a display of amusement.

"It _is_  my birthday, Rajesh."

They were in front of the washroom now. Tonks leaned against the door of the gents; she poked her wand in the gap between the door and the frame and muttered: " _Homenum Revelio_." One breath later, she pulled Remus inside, shoved him into a stall, and unlocked the door behind them.

"This is ingratiation," hissed Tonks. "Thick bastards. They're just begging to be placed under the Imperius Curse—hopefully for them that goblin-brewed barley wine is worth it."

It was too cramped for both of them in the stall. Remus put down the toilet seat cover and sat on it.

"For the record," he sighed, "I don't agree with what you're planning. But I can't stop you."

Tonks crossed her arms. "A Legilimens now, are you?"

"You're planning to assault and kidnap a highly experienced senior Auror, impersonate them, and join the other Aurors to enter into what could be a trap by Death Eaters in Malfoy Manor, a magical building guarded by formidable ancient magic," stated Remus, "and I won’t be able to do anything but wait."

"Incorrect," said Tonks, "you'd have to watch over the body of whoever I'm impersonating."

They Disillusioned themselves again and waited behind the washroom door. The whole plan now depended on any of the five Aurors needing the loo—a possibility both of them agreed was not too remote judging from how much they had had to drink.

And behold: in stumbled the birthday boy. Once the door closed behind him, two jets of red light hit him square in mid-back.

They worked quickly. Tonks enlarged and Transfigured her robes to match the Auror’s, morphed into an identical copy of him, and changed her voice.

"Rendezvous point?" she whispered in the Auror's baritone.

"Our favourite bush in front of Malfoy Manor."

"Gotcha. Oh, wait." Tonks dug into her pocket (which Remus was starting to suspect was subject to an Undetectable Expansion Charm), and then threw him a small vial. "Draught of Living Death. Old Aurors shake off Stunning Spells faster than a sniffle."

She opened the door.

"Tonks," whispered Remus.

She paused.

“Don’t die.”

She saluted and winked. Her usual grin did not suit the blond Auror's face at all.

 

* * *

 

We are all crashing towards the Andromeda Galaxy, although it's highly unlikely you'll be here in 4.5 billion years' time to bear witness to it. In the meantime, it is a smudge above the constellation honouring the woman who was once chained to the rocks, and now and forever in human eyes, chained to the sky.

Their captive Auror made a lousy stargazing partner (but then again the night was lousy for stargazing to begin with because of that damn moon). He was, however, perhaps the person Remus had been most intimate with in recent years: he had to keep a hand on the Disillusioned Auror's chest to ensure he was both not dead and not awake. The other hand had been clenching his wand so tightly he had lost sensation in the fingers.

His hearing was still good—but not good enough to hear anything from the Manor. The night had been so still and quiet that if not for the flickering of the stars and the slow rise and fall of the Auror's chest he would have thought time had stopped.

She must be fine. If anything happened, it would still be five Aurors against three Death Eaters, after all. And wasn't it Tonks who told him that Aurors were trained to fight off the Imperius Curse?

But Alastor Moody was brought down by a man who spent 12 years as a rat, and another who spent 13 years imprisoned in Azkaban and by his father. And Malfoy could have easily summoned other Death Eaters—it'd only take one inconspicuous press to the Dark Mark on his left arm.

He snarled. He hated this—he hated feeling so damn helpless. He stared at the dark outline of the Manor between the gaps in the bushes, scratching at the overgrown beard around his neck. He had long gotten rid of the glasses, but the rest of the disguise would have to wait until he got back.

There was some rustling behind him. He turned around. A hedgehog poked its nose out of the bushes. It looked around, and then retreated back into the darkness. Ah, he must have scared the poor critter.

He sighed and brought his knees closer to his chest as the cool summer breeze blew. Honeysuckle petals tickled his ear.

Time seemed to stop again.

Remus almost jumped when the gate started clanking and whining. He carefully unfolded his body and peered over the bushes. Several figures lit by wand light were stepping out of the gate.

"You are most welcome, it has been our utter pleasure and delight," said Lucius Malfoy's voice.

"I see now why Fudge likes you so much, Lucius."

"Oh, you are too kind, Tim."

"Goodbye then, Lucius, Narcissa. Do pass my regards to the Crabbes and Goyles."

"No, not goodbye, Bill. Are you already trying to be rid of me?" Laughter. "I will see you all again. Soon, if circumstances allow. After all, I would have to pass Richmond here a bottle from the second batch of the barley wine!"

"I hope it will mature before my wife's divorce papers come in."

More laughter.

"You're in no state to Apparate, Richmond," said Scrimgeour's voice, "I'll take you home."

"You spoil me, Rufus."

Another round of Thank You's, and a series of cracks echoed through the night.

Narcissa Malfoy sighed. "They're as wild as your... other friends, Lucius."

"So you disliked them."

"I dislike everyone."

"And that is why I married you."

The gate rumbled close. She made it, thought Remus, but where was she? Around him, the blanket of stillness settled. Time threatened to stop again.

The wind blew again. He didn't hear her until he saw her crouching among the shrubs and bushes just a few feet away, already within their protective circle, her lit wand in her mouth. She was herself again, except her hair was still blonde and curly, and her robes still Rix's.

He breathed again.

"Tonks..."

Tonks took her wand in hand and turned to the direction of his voice. "Remus?" She raised an eyebrow. "You're not gonna ask me?"

"Right," said Remus quickly. He couldn't believe he almost forgot basic security checks. "Er... what tattoo does Nymphadora Tonks have?"

Tonks rubbed the side of her left ribs. "Andromeda Constellation, 'cause nothing frustrates my mother more than being disappointed and touched at the same time." She crawled closer; she had extinguished her wand, but the grin lingered in her whisper. "Wanna see?"

Remus tapped her on the head with his wand; she shuddered as she dissolved into thin air.

"Well, tha-that tells me it's you, alright," giggled Tonks. "Why ask when you haven't s-seen it before?"

"It just came to me," shrugged Remus. "Are you alright?"

"I drank _soooooo_  damn much," whispered Tonks. "Ah hah—no, no one'd be surprised ol' Rix ca-can't remember a damn thing from this evening. Is he here? Izzat you I'm touching?"

"That's him."

"Oh. Yeah, was too lumpy."

He felt her sway; her warm weight increased against his back. Her breath curled in the air: the heavy but sweet twang of alcohol mixing with the honeysuckle scent of the night. And then she jerked; the wind blew; he was empty of her.

"Sorry," grunted Tonks. "We should—should take Rixy home. Scrimgeour he—he left me outside his place just now, we can... we can just dump his fat arse there."

"Tonks," said Remus sharply, "Are you sure you're in a condition to Apparate?"

"Oh, puh-leaze," sang Tonks, "I just did, didn't I? I'm not that in-inebriated—hah! See that word?"

"I really don't," muttered Remus, stifling his Disillusioned smile out of habit, not necessity.

Something invisible bushwhacked his hand off Rix; whatever it was had fingers, and it also smacked him in the calf and chest. "Leggo of'im, mate, I'll take the bugger m'self—"

"No, Tonks, don't—"

The loud crack whipped the air in their protective bubble. He flinched; he cursed; he sighed.

He waited again.

The night darkened. Clouds shrouded over the moon, veiled over the few visible stars. A startled cricket slammed against him. The wind blew a flustered moth to his mouth. The hedgehog had returned; it snatched the moth as it tumbled to the ground in the gale of Remus's surprised gasp.

And then _that_ force of nature returned. She hadn't taken the chance to Apparate into their protective circle again, and she had just inadvertently crawled across his feet. The hedgehog waddled back into the bushes.

"Gregg's," she was mumbling, "and then bed."

Remus didn't know where she lived, but he did know he wasn't letting her risk Apparating again. "Let's go back to HQ," he suggested, "I know just the thing to sober you up."

"You gonna say chocolate?"

"Hot chocolate."

Her invisible hands found his, and they were gone.

A drunk Tonks was a physical hazard in Grimmauld Place; she had almost walked into Walburga Black's painting had Remus not pulled her back. She fell back towards him, the back of her head connecting with his nose. And still he managed to catch her in his arms.

"Sorry—"

He placed a finger against her lips and cast a wary glance at the moth-eaten curtains. The trail of snores droned on. She scrambled to her feet, but he wasn't about to let her loose in this dark and dangerous corridor: they carefully stumbled their way like a beast with misshapen limbs.

They passed the grandfather clock that was until very recently murderous; the small arm pointed beyond '3'. They very nearly made it to the kitchen when Tonks, shaking with silent laughter, fell forward onto him. He backed against the wall for support.

"Whatta night huh," she muttered. "We should do it again."

Her hands were propping her for support on either side of him. The top of her hair tickled his chin. He briefly wondered if a Metamorphmagus had control over their scent as well.

"Drinking Malfoy's wine disguised as a senior Auror you'd recently Stunned and drugged?"

She took a hand to her mouth to muffle her laughter; that side of her collapsed into him. That hand grabbed a fistful of his robe. He made the mistake of glancing down, the fatal mistake of looking into those big dark eyes.

Her heart beat over his.

There was a thunk. And then another thunk. Someone was climbing down the stairs. A wand light illuminated a gruesome shadow that shrank into the thin, long-haired figure of Sirius Black.

"Kreacher?"

Tonks was already on her feet. Remus cleared his throat and said quickly: "So, what were you saying about Scrimgeour?"

"Yeah," said Tonks as quickly, "yeah, I think he's definitely not under the Imperius curse, but-but he's been asking me funny questions lately. I think he suspects I'm moonlighting or something..."

"Oh," said Sirius, "it's just you lot." He stepped closer; Remus could smell his breath and realised that he was now dealing with more than one _inebriated_  person. "It _is_  you, Moony? What's with the face?"

"Disguise," grunted Remus.

"Blimey." Sirius pushed his face towards his closer. "That looks painful," he said, "stay still, I'll fix it." Before Remus could protest, Sirius's lit wand was on his nose and Sirius muttered " _Episky_."

The nose shot itself right; Remus threw his head back, and slammed it against the wall with a bang. His ears rang. Sirius held his wand between his teeth as he took two hands to steady Remus's face, chanting "Lemme see, lemme see" as if he were a Healer conducting a check-up on a petulant boy.

"Aw shit, you look worse now," said Sirius, still biting on his wand. He finally shoved it into his pocket when Remus shook his hands off and felt his own nose. "It means it's back to normal, knobhead."

Sirius grinned at Tonks, who was now leaning against the wall. "Hullo baby cousin, you're _druuuunk_."

Tonks pointed at him. "Pot."

"I _am_  Black," announced Sirius triumphantly. Tonks groaned and planted her face in the wall. "Here I thought you were out all night in a mission."

"We were!" shot Tonks back. "I-I took one for the team, alright? Fucking Malfoy he—“

She paused, and then covered her mouth with her hands as she lurched forward violently. She looked at the both of them with wide eyes and red cheeks before clambering up the stairs.

"Don't come after me!" came her desperate pleading.

"We'll be in the kitchen," called Remus after her.

Tonks returned a few minutes later decidedly more sober. She was now curled around the mug of hot chocolate on the table, chiming to add more details into Remus's recounting of the night to Sirius.

"What happened in the Manor?" asked Sirius.

"Nothing," replied Tonks. She climbed up her hand to rest her face on it. "Malfoy flirted with everyone. Scrimgeour still wasn't drinking; I could tell he was keeping watch. Me, I wandered around a bit using Rix's notorious bladder as an excuse, making sure there were no Death Eaters waiting to jump us, getting a sense of the place, clogging the Malfoys' toilet with a proper masterpiece of a shit. Have you been there, Sirius?"

Sirius shrugged. "Ages ago when I was a kid."

"Well, I can draw a map—once the bloody world stops turning and my stomach stops churning, that is—and you can help me check it before I attach it to my report."

“I guess, but… Don't, er, don't take this the wrong way, Tonks," said Sirius in an astonishingly careful tone, "but how good is your sense of direction when you're so wasted you no longer have a sense of balance?"

She gasped in an exaggerated offended tone.

"I'll have you know, _Mister_ , I was trained under Alastor Moody himself!"

Sirius's grin widened. "And did he train you to be constantly vigilant under influence?"

"As a matter of fact..." began Tonks with the most solemn face. When Sirius burst out laughing, she added: "What the fuck do you think is in that flask of his? It isn't fucking herbal tea, that's for sure!"

After a round of laughter she took a sip of the hot chocolate and deflated back down onto the table, a cheek pressed against the mug. "This is so good, Remus," she purred.

Sirius stopped laughing. He leaned closer to Tonks, reached a hand out and into the mass of blonde curls. Remus looked down at his mug; an island of bubbles floated serenely in the sea of chocolate.

"You alright, cuz? Go home and get some sleep. You've been up all night."

"No," murmured Tonks. "It's fine. I'm fine. If anyone should be getting some rest it's Remus. It's just a day after the full moon, after all."

"Yeah, you stubborn git," said Sirius. He pulled his hand away from Tonks and knocked Remus less tenderly on the temple. "Get your arse to bed."

"I slept the entire evening yesterday," said Remus, pushing Sirius away. "I've got enough of that, thanks."

He caught Tonks's eye as he fended off Sirius's attempt to elbow him in the rib; within that split of a second he knew she understood it as well: Sirius Black was their other mission together.

“Fine, you’re a grown-up boy, I can’t send you to your room,” said Sirius, “but can you do something about your disconcerting face?” He flicked a stray black strand off Remus’s face. “I want my Moony back.”

The beard was getting itchy, and Remus was sure his scalp was sweating under the sticky black gel coating his hair. So he complied. It took strategic scrubbing to get his hair back to its greying glory—he'd hate to accelerate the thinning process; not everyone was blessed with thick strong hair like Sirius "Born Shampoo Ad Star" Black. The bath was coated with a lick of black by the time he was done; it took a few rounds of _Scourgify_  in between putting on his clothes to clear up.

Upon re-entering the kitchen he found Tonks leaning across the table, her face inching closer and closer to Sirius. His first reaction was to step back out again and maybe hit some of Sirius's wine supply. And then he saw that Sirius had already carried out further raids on said supply for himself and Tonks in the time it took for Remus to shower.

“Your question belies your misunderstanding of what being a Metamorphmagus is like, cousin,” muttered Tonks; Remus initially thought she was chanting something, and Sirius was transfixed under her spell. “I don’t _be_  you just by _thinking_  of you. Each person is like… a potion! Yeah, everyone is just their own unique precise mixture of ingredients. Look at you, Sirius Black."

Her hand traced the contours of his face, her thumb grazed the outline of his features.

"Long, wavy hair. Black—the easiest colour; the absence of colour. Your eyebrows—the way they arch, the way they tail off just beyond your eyes—and your eyes, how it is more grey than blue, how the left one droops just a tad more. The cut of your cheekbones; the pits of your dimples; the way your lips are slightly lopsided to the left, adding that little bit much to your charm—”

Remus was now staring at two Sirius Blacks. They both turned to him and gave him identical grins.

"Sirius asked me how _anatomically accurate_  my morphing into a man is," said one of the Siriuses in Tonks's voice, "but it doesn't work like that. I've only just done the face. If we both stand up right now, I'll still be shorter than you until I adjust my body and leg lengths to match yours; and if I pull my pants down—"

"Woah," said Remus quickly, stepping in to pull the Sirius-looking Tonks back down onto her chair, "alright, I think we get the point."

"If you need reference," said Sirius, standing up.

"No." Remus pointed his wand at Sirius's chair so that it shot forward and dropped him back on top of it with a bang.

"It's for _science_ , Moony," whined Sirius.

Remus had almost blurted out the word _Harry_  while pointing to the door. Playing the Godfather card never failed to make an adult out of Sirius in a jiffy. But _Harry_  was the reason why Sirius had been up all night smelling like a wet dog a stag threw up on in the darkest corner of Knocturn Alley (yes, I that was awfully specific, yes it was a long story). So Remus held his tongue and only reminded Sirius that the last time they did something for _science_ , yes, he might have managed to get that motorbike to fly, but somewhere in the wilds of Northern Scotland a herd of Harley Davidsons and Hondas in various degrees of sentience might alarmingly have interbred and flourished.

"I miss that motorbike," sighed Sirius.

"Where is that motorbike?" added Tonks eagerly.

"Please, don't talk about that motorbike," pleaded Molly. She had just entered the kitchen in her dressing gown and slippers, still rubbing the sleep out of her eye. "Arthur will be down any minute now, and he always gets too excited at the thought of that thing. Morning, you lot. Have you been up all night?"

"Good morning, Molly," said Remus, drawing a chair for her. "You're up early. Do you want some hot chocolate?"

"It's quarter past five—oh, thank you, love." Molly accepted the mug from Remus and took a sip. "I want to make sure Harry has a good, hearty breakfast before his hearing." She looked around the table with a gentle smile. "Well, do you want anything?"

"Something incredibly salty and oily? If it isn't too much trouble, I mean, Molly, " said Tonks hopefully. "I guess I'll just go to work from here—Scrimgeour won't be happy certainly, but I'll just morph these eye bags away and put on some pink cheeks—and down a gallon of coffee—and he won't suspect a thing."

"You know," said Remus some time later as Tonks tucked into a plate of sausage and bacon, "if it's affecting your work, you shouldn't stay so late with us all the time."

Tonks put down her fork and glared at him. "Fadifonto!" She raised a finger and swallowed in one big gulp before trying again: "But I want to." She turned to Sirius. "You don't mind, do you, Sirius?"

"Hell no," grinned Sirius in mid-chew of his own bacon and sausage set. "You're cool, baby cousin, you can hang with us."

When Remus took another sip of hot chocolate, he tasted an odd mixture of annoyance and yet relief she didn't ask him if he had minded her. Annoyance because he would want the chance to tell her _no, he didn't mind her_ , but also relief because he didn't have to tell her very awkwardly that _no, he didn't mind her_.

She caught his eye and smiled before shoving a strip of bacon into her mouth.

How could he ever mind her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As we enter the new year and work begins anew I will have less time to write and work on this, so updates henceforth will be more sporadic. Thank you for the encouragement and kind words you have graced me with thus far, and thank you for reading.


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